


Cries of the Deceived

by Daughter_of_Song_DXXIX



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Bendy (Bendy and the Ink Machine) Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Multi, Other, Prequel, Rivalry, Romance, clean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-04 04:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18335783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_Song_DXXIX/pseuds/Daughter_of_Song_DXXIX
Summary: Before Henry Stein returned to Joey Drew's studio thirty years later, there were those people who fell into despair because of a creator's lies. Before becoming who we now know them as, Allison Pendle, Thomas Connor, Susie Campbell, Sammy Lawrence, and a lot more lost souls were as desperate for escape. They were all against the Ink Demon himself at one point as they assembled pieces of their past before the big event of falling prey under Joey's Ink Machine.This story, "Cries of the Deceived", shares that part of their broken story. The time when Allison and Tom still remembered their love, before Susie became insane for perfection, and Sammy before his days of belief in the savior that left him to rot.





	1. Once People, Now Fallen Into Despair

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the characters were victim to the Ink Machine, but before Henry entered the studio.

 

 _ _“_ Hello? Is it working? Can you hear me?” _A few more static lines, and on the screendisplayed none other than the jubilant face of Wally Franks. Despite the faded lighting, the unmistakable gleam in his eyes told mischief, dark intentions that he usually had people in the studio be victim of. He backed away from the camera, his lean and young build making an appearance, covered in the usual clothing of a janitor. His hat tipped slightly to the side, but he didn’t bother to arrange it as he tossed a mop off-screen, sending a proud smile at the camera.

How Wally found something to even film himself with, it was a mystery. Wally himself was a mystery, only thwarted by the truth that his mind was literally ‘way out of here’. Still, Wally didn’t seem to mind, not as his hands made a gesture to show the viewer his surroundings: the janitor’s closet.

 _“Welcome to Joey Drew Studios, everyone! I’m Wally, and I’ll be your guide for today. Want me to show you how Bendy cartoons are made? Well, you’re in luck! That’s exactly what I’m gonna do!”_ He picked up the camera, limbs vanishing at the corner of the black-and-white film. He licked his lips with the effort as he lifted the camera, angling it to his face, features visible in the camera. _“The closest place to here is actually the Music Department. Mind if we go there first? Who am I kidding? You ain’t gonna answer! Just stay tuned!”_

The screen displayed more static before that was replaced with the footage of one of the members of the studio sitting on a chair by a table, a plate of lunch right in front of him. Wally’s extended hand tapped his shoulder as a band played in the background. Only when the man turned around was his face recognizable.

Wally’s disembodied voice chuckled. _“Hah! Hello, Henry! Not on your desk right now, it seems.”_

A smile in reply. Henry Stein didn’t look offended, nor did he sound offended when he replied. _“And you don’t seem to be sweeping the floor.”_ He placed down his fork, next to a portion of rice and what suspiciously looked like part of chicken. On his side was a can of bacon soup. _“Who told you to film?”_

 _ _“_ Me.” _Wally walked closer to Henry before scanning the entire room. Oh, and what a familiar room it was, how organized it looked before the collapse. The sad, sad collapse. Wally whistled at the band, where one of the drummers messed up by dropping his stick during his cue. There was laughter in the background from one of the other band members. _“How are they doing?”_

Henry’s face returned to the camera. __“_ Sammy’s been doing a good job with the songs lately. I don’t know if he was inspired by anything, but for certain, the work he’s been doing is great. He should get a raise.” _Henry lifted a glass of water to his mouth.

Wally made a sound. __“_ Speaking of Sammy…” _

The footage flashed static once more, then revealed the beautiful face of actress Susie Campbell on the screen. Her eyes were wide with surprise, her lips shaped like a heart. Wally’s hat made an appearance, as if he were the one holding the camera as he made an introduction to the female, which was most likely the case. His voice said a second later, _“Greetings, Ms. Campbell.”_

Smiling warmly, Susie waved to the camera. _“Wally Franks! Is this a new assignment?”_

Wally, sounding like that was a repeated question, replied sarcastically. __“_ Gosh, yes. Mr. Drew deserves to give me a bigger salary. But anyway…” _He made a clicking noise, mimicking the numerous clicking noises caused by who heck knew then. _“Mind if we visit the cranky music director for a while?”_

Flushing lightly, Susie’s eyes brightened. Though they never confirmed publicly, it was already known in the whole studio that she and Sammy might’ve had more chemistry than a regular pair of employees. And a regular pair of friends. __“_ Yeah, okay!”_

Static.

 _ _“_ Hey, Sammy! Turn around, won’t ya?” _Wally’s unmistakable voice rang out as Sammy sat with his back facing the camera, crouched over a table, most probably writing another piece. He gave zero attention to Wally’s call, only resume his work with an audible grunt. Still, that wasn’t enough to silence Wally. _“Lawrence! Sammy Lawrence!”_

Susie, who was also off-camera at the time, tried to call him as well. __“_ Sammy! Turn around! C’mon, just for a while!”_

 _ _“_ I’m busy!” _Was Sammy’s quick reply. When it came to Susie, he was more active. But with Wally around, he continued putting on a face, one of the grumpy songwriter that he normally was. Though he still didn’t turn around, not to show his face to the camera despite being admittedly handsome. And the thing was: he knew it. He just didn’t care at all. Not when it was Joey. Henry. Wally. Or anyone else. For Sammy, his main goal was Susie. He had written his best songs for her to sing, which was a reason he secretly liked Alice Angel as a character. Not Bendy. Alice.

The shouted statement was not enough for Susie though. She sounded quite proud when she cooed to him, __“_ Will you turn around if I told you that we had chocolate cake?”_

Sammy stopped, abruptly freezing in place at her words. It was almost as if he had stopped moving, stopped breathing altogether. Then to Susie and Wally’s victory, he turned around, his eyes looking tired, but with a small hint of amusement. His lips, however, and his muscles only confirmed fatigue. Though only one trace of happiness, he was still a perfect portrait, a beautiful man.

 _ _“_ You’d have to be crazy to not love chocolate cake,” _Sammy said hoarsely.

Behind the camera, Susie burst into laughter as Wally clapped and yelled, __“_ Yeah-hah! We got him to look!” _

More static, then another scene. This time, an image of Wally and Shawn Flynn giving each other a high five. Static again, and it was Norman Polk teaching Wally how the projection was turned on. The next, it was Wally pestering Thomas Connor, who rolled his eyes in annoyance. Then Grant Cohen, Bertrum Piedmont, Lacie Benton…Wally had gone through the whole studio without getting reprimanded by anyone, but only praised for his genius idea.

“Are you watching the tape again?”

Thomas suddenly pressed the pause button, fumbling with his remote as he did so. He spun in his seat, meeting the cartoonish eyes of his wife, Allison Connor. Her hair, which was supposed to be gray with age, was midnight. Her wrinkles were replaced with fair, unnatural skin. Her pale arms were cloaked by glistening, pitch-black ink.

Because of the Ink Machine, the machine that turned them into what they were now.

A Boris clone. A perfect angel.

Alice Angel.

Being transformed into a Boris clone, Thomas couldn’t speak. So all he managed was a quick nod, that with a sad glance at the small television of the private room they managed to find in Joey’s heck of an animation studio. How time had turned such a creepy place into Tartarus, how time had turned the place where happy couples played into a place where people broke apart. Thomas dropped the remote on the wooden floor, which created an loud, clattering echo.

Allison approached him carefully, her hair a dark curtain over her shoulders. The perfect angel. The perfect Alice. But she never wanted to admit it, not even when she looked at the mirror. Because she always said that the mirror never reflected her heart as it reflected her body. In reality, all their insides were just ink. They themselves were living ink. And Thomas wasn’t sure if that inky heart was what Allison saw, or what she wanted to see.

Glancing at the screen, Allison met the eyes of Wally Franks, still so young with that full smile. And yes, the last they saw, he wore that same smile as he held the hands of his grandchildren. And then, they had the same smiles. But now…

Inky tears. Wails of the betrayed.

That’s all there was in this tragedic story of Joey Drew and his dreaded Ink Machine.

Allison stopped walking, putting a hand on the hips that weren’t supposed to look this narrow for someone so old. “For the what time?” She asked, a hint of sarcasm in her youngish voice. Her best way to make Thomas smile, because all of them rarely did so anymore.

Thomas swiped one of his gloved fingers over a shallow puddle of dark ink. With that done, he scribbled a quick message on the floor between them.

_The hundredth time._

And Allison smirked. Thomas smirked too, even when it felt weird while sporting a wolf’s snout rather than a human’s lips. At least, it was the closest they’d get to a smile. Whenever they did smile, Thomas couldn’t help but wonder if that smile would be their last. Maybe tomorrow, they’d be killed by inky friends turned foe, and they’d forget everything. Who they were. It was a possibility here in the studio, and that possibility was everything but good.

Crossing her arms, Allison said, “Are you ready to go?”

Through the depths of darkened hallways and twisted turns in a never-ending studio? Sure. That’s all they’ve been doing before winding up here again at the end of the day. Or night. Who knew what time it really was outside. After all, there were no windows, and the clocks no longer ran despite their ticking. Another lie.

Without hesitation, Thomas stood up, feet kicking away the remote. He nodded once more, pie eyes serious as he did so.

Allison grabbed an elongated bag that leaned by a wall, unsheathing a sword. A weapon she had made for herself a while ago, a decision born from the experiences of dealing with inky blobs and monsters. Allison’s craftsmanship was excellent, the sword sharp and slicing when she swiped. And Thomas knew that he got that from him, being his wife.

He found the idea silly that she wielded a sword while all he got was a Gent pipe. And he was the repairman.

She sighed. “C’mon then, Tom. Maybe this time we’d get lucky.”

She said that almost everyday. And each of those days, all they got were dead ends.

But Thomas didn’t hesitate. He followed her out of the room, leaving Wally’s bright smile behind once again.

 

* * *

 

Hours of walking around in the studio didn’t tire Sammy. In fact, he always seemed to get stronger with each step deeper, and his pride rose with each passing moment. It didn’t matter if he was now disfigured, his once wonderful aura shifted into a pathetic creature. At least the muscles stayed, and the pack he got from daily exercise.

But the axe was a dead weight in his hands. He dragged it down the hallways, even if that created a loud, screeching sound as friction acted up. Only when he sensed the looming presence of foes did he raise the weapon, and he never missed a shot. The technique was planned perfectly in his mind, and that made him happy that the fact that his critical thinking skills never vanished.

And yet he was still stuck here, in this inky, dark abyss, he called a body.

Black everywhere, even on his face. He couldn’t feel it, couldn’t tell if he was blinking, when his mouth was agape from momentary shock. No, it was only theories for Sammy, how he must’ve looked and behaved when he did.

Did Sammy ever even smile? Cry? Bite his lips in irritation? He could never be certain, not anymore.

So it was pointless to feel anything except betrayal.

Joey Drew--the creator--lied to them. And it was funny, that Sammy had once even believed him. He never trusted Joey, not even thirty years ago when he wrote those old songs, songs he still sang for his own entertainment. When he couldn’t sleep, to calm his nerves. Wait, did he still have any nerves? Or was it only ink and artificial hearts?

A cracking sound to his right had Sammy spinning, axe already swiping, and boy did he get the bullseye. The creature’s head hovered over the axe’s metallic tip, the body slumping onto the wooden floor. Like every other ambush, Sammy’s reflexes always resulted in being sprayed by inky blood. Now was like every other.

Then the creature’s whole melted, disappearing beneath the floorboards. Back to the Ink Machine, to be reborn again into who the heck knew. Another creature who would die again and be reborn again? Undoubtedly. Sammy concluded.

“I would’ve pitied you a long time ago,” Sammy whispered emotionlessly at the spot his assailant once lay.  

But not anymore. Pity was a waste of time. In this place, nobody felt pity for anyone except for themselves, because dang were they just pitiful creatures.

And so he began dragging the axe again, back to where he began his time of privacy.

_Sing my song and my sanctuary will open to you._

The room where he once conducted a band full of colorful and merry melodies, now a place where monsters spawn. When Sammy was certain that he was alone, he approached his instruments, playing his secret formula to open up his sanctuary. The playful clucks of his favorite banjo, to the bass fiddles that hummed a quick song. Then the drums that always followed the beat of adrenaline and heartbeat, when the time came to a grand performance and recording. The piano, with delicate presses speaks grand. And the violin that shudders.

Joey and Norman would stand together on the balcony as the latter switches on the projector. Then Sammy would raise his baton, and the band would sing in unison, the instruments’ tune reverberating through the room. Sammy once heard a comment from Wally Franks that he got goosebumps once.

Those were the days that Sammy was successful. Bold and happy (if not a little cranky). Now, the band was empty--dead, corrupted, missing. Sammy felt alone then end there, even when he was never close to any member and never recalled their names.

A click, and a door opened. Sammy approached it, and was greeted with the view of his old sanctuary. Just like he left it, toilet seat included.

He seated by the desk, propping the banjo by the side on his lap. A few rotations on the pegs and he was strumming, an old song that drifted in the air. One of his old songs, one he recalled writing for creepy smiling demons and wolves.

How naive he used to be.

As he began singing, the animation popped in his mind: Bendy, seating on a table like his own, a quill in hand as he attempted to write a Shakespearean poem to his lover of the heavens. Hilarious how desperate Bendy was, that he decided to turn on a radio, and Sammy’s song will play. Then Bendy would weep, slamming his fists on the paper as thunder pounded outside alongside the rain. A song of rejection, of failure to capture one’s heart.

Sammy never knew what the experience was like while writing that song. That was Jack’s job.

Now, it haunted him in a way that he wanted to tear himself apart.

Joey… _Joey Drew._

That buffoon.

It was all his fault.

His notes turned into screams of agony, and the banjo was no longer singing. It was an echo of his hurt, his anger and resentment. Sadness and rage coiled, and Sammy’s grip on the fingerboard copied his way of holding the axe. A scream, and the banjo was sailing…

But never hit the wall.

Instead, collided with the floor, and Sammy fell silent.

He sat down aggressively, panting heavily. His fingers trembled. Ink ran down his body like sweat would have done before. He tried to clear his mind, but voices continued to whisper. Sammy did not have the strength to shush them, to bury their words into a vault. His heart only welcomed them, even when he didn’t want them to come. Involuntary. A trait so human that he felt even lower.

Sammy sank his head into his hands.

 

* * *

 

Every time Susie looked at her hands, they were pitch-black and gooey. Icky, yucky, sticky, with a squishing sound to accompany it. But it was still her hands either way, and she had chosen to burden herself with them.

That dreadful day, when she heard words that might’ve cured her sadness. But in the end, it was a trick. She was never important as an actress, but they needed her for ventriloquism. But she said yes anyway, and look where that got her.

Underground, the air stank. Spoiled bacon soup maybe, because that’s the only sense of human life that remained to linger. But with all the ink, where could one even put bacon soup? Invisible in the darkness of the Ink Demon’s home.

Susie was kneeling on the floor, staring blankly at her skirt. Black, just like the rest of it. Only her face was paler, yellowish in this lighting. But how she changed, once beauty turned beast. Her half-halo contradicted with her horns. Her eyes, one tawny, the other a pitch-black pit, saw nothing but flashes. Quick glimpses of her past, quick glimpses of her past. A lonely angel, a new voice. A handsome liar. A set of fake friends.

Why did it seem so horrible?

All around her, more humans stood in glass coffins with tubes above their heads, ink flooding the insides as clones were being created. Susie had a hard time believing that she had exited one of those things before, and releasing herself as a crawling…thing.

Seating did nothing, but at that moment, it was everything. It served as a way for depression to just hover in one specific spot, not follow her and pummel her. Might as well suffer here in one place, let the hopelessness just play here. It wasn’t as if she denied it. She had already given up.

There was a tapping sound, and Susie turned to see a lost soul tapping his glass. His melancholic yellow eyes illuminated through his inky body.

Susie released an exhale, but stood. She neared the glass, putting a hand on its surface. The Lost One, placed his own hand on his side.

He was so skinny, Susie noticed. If he were still alive, his ribcage might’ve marked through his skin, a freaky pattern to trace. Still, he managed to stand, to try touching her from the other side of their barrier. He was still trapped, still weak, but still…

“I couldn’t get you out,” Susie said. The Lost One flinched, slowly dropping his hand. But he didn’t complain, try to speak, or to convince her otherwise. Maybe all his hope has disappeared too.

Or maybe he was scared of her.

She wondered if Sammy saw her he would be scared as well.

Like he cared. Susie learned not to let her feelings overwhelm her so long ago. Every time that led her to a dark path, one with twists so brutal that she felt as if she had entered a labyrinth without Ariadne’s string. She had no way out, no way to save herself from the monsters that lurked in the shadows.

Perhaps she deserved it.

The Lost One sat down, face tilted to the pouring ink. The ink pounded on him, and he didn’t care.

Susie decided to walk then. Not sit in her circle, but to walk through the dark hallways of this inky hallway.

Then she saw the throne room-like area, with a literal throne at the center, atop a lump of ink and pipes and audio logs. Of Joey Drew. So she ignored it and approached it.

Sat on the throne.

And for once felt so high and mighty. So beautiful and perfect, like a wave of unexplainable power washed over her. Alice Angel began connecting to her, the character she always loved warping into her mind. Lonely, but cast down to love. Waiting for love.

And perfection.

That’s what was missing for Susie: the thought of perfection, internally and externally. Because she was replaced with Pendle, and forced to suffer, bearing the words of her former friend. Lies upon lies upon lies drove her insane, a madwoman storming through the darkness. That’s all she had been. A vagabond.

Internally and Externally.

Nothing more, nothing less. Pathetic, Alice Angel, was her. The one without Bendy’s love, one apart from her Romeo. But her Romeo wasn’t a man. It was her freedom and her beauty. Her cleanliness, her innocence. Not a naive and controllable little girl, like she was. Alice Angel was always more than that. And she was Alice Angel now.

So behave like an angel. Get the throne, be the villain to the true villains. Cast down, and against those casters. The story sounded so familiar, yet she didn’t care. She was to be beautiful. She was right in all her angles, in all her truths. They’ve been the puppeteers. She was the puppet. They’ve been tugging her strings long enough already.

She gripped the edge of the chair. It felt cool beneath her palms, but that could’ve just been the ink. Liquid was ink, and ink was liquid. Reflexive Property. But cool either way, filled with so much energy. She didn’t want to leave this seat, not without bringing this strength with her.

The audio log then looked at her. She picked it up, and like it was a spoiled cake, tossed it aside. It clattered on the floor, and echoed. She didn’t mind the sound, even if it might’ve attracted a lot of monsters her way. If they saw her, she might look like their queen.

Or better, their guardian angel.

She needed their trust. She needed to be above. So she stood again, lowered herself from the throne, and wondered where she last saw a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's chapter 1 of a little thing I'm working on! Hope you guys will enjoy it. I've been double-tasking with both my writing skills improvement and just simply writing entertainment for characters I really like!
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let's wait for chapter 2 now, shall we? ;-D


	2. Friend Or Foe?

 

The banjo was lying haphazardly on the floor when Sammy woke from a nap he didn’t know he actually had. His eyes opened to see his dark palms, which had been covering his face as he slumbered. When he saw the banjo on the floor, his earlier tantrum came flooding back to his mind--another one of those tantrums Wally had always laughed at when they still worked together.

Rubbing his eyes, Sammy tried to stand from his seat but his butt collided with it. He grunted, realizing how painful his head felt. He guessed it was the unbalanced way he had fallen asleep, or maybe the ink was just seeping deeper into his brain. Either way, he had a splitting headache.

There was a thundering sound that played, and his heartbeat seemed to seep up to his ears. Then in his vision he spotted…black spots. What he assumed were stars. All the symptoms of somebody who was going to collapse out of a migraine.

He balanced himself on the table with one hand, the other clutching his head. The pain was getting stronger, the walls filling with cobwebbed patterns of dark ink... 

Wait. He wasn’t having a headache, he thought with horror. The Ink Demon of Joey Drew…Bendy…

The heartbeat, the headache…an atmosphere of negative energy trying to insert itself through his body and crack his bones…

Despite the headache, Sammy straightened himself, with trembling hands searched for his axe, and with great difficulty, fled.

Fled from his sanctuary, where he always considered solace. But it wasn’t this moment, not when that beast was walking through its interior with that smile Sammy always hated. So Sammy ran, ran as he clutched his head, his heart resuming its thundering in his chest. If he were human, his knuckles would’ve been pale with his harsh grip on the axe, blurriness still streaking his vision.

_C’mon, Sammy! Run! Run like the world is crowding in on you!_

It did feel like the world was crowding in on him, but he didn’t think he was running fast enough. He still felt the pain, the screeching of invisible voices and the laughter of demons. Playing with him. Trying to tag him as if he were in a game.

Imagination or not, that was the feeling. And they were gaining on him.

Past the Sound Department, past all the stairs. The crooked hallways and flooded inky stairwells that roamed around the studio. Sammy didn’t stop, because no matter where he went, the thundering was still there, a fatal drum in his ears. Nausea rising to his throat. An unbearable pain.

Then he remembered those little ‘Miracle Stations’ Thomas Connor told him about thirty years ago. __“_ When you feel like the world is trying to weigh on your shoulders, like your heart feels at its lowest, close the doors of one of my Miracle Stations, and maybe the haunting will leave you alone.” _

Sammy remembered spotting one by a set of stairs, so relying on his memory, his legs, he ran for there. Didn’t slow, not even with the pounding. The pounding was just a cue that he must go faster. Not to stop, nor to close his eyes. Not to let his fatigue run him over.

Quickly. Speedily.

When he found the Miracle Station, he pulled the door open, slammed his body into the box’s inside, and shut the door. Then did he pant, then did he breathe.

The sound of his heartbeat slowed and went quiet with each breath, but it didn’t really leave yet. Not with the Ink Demon outside the door. Not while his presence wandered the perimeter, a smile like a Cheshire cat illuminating in the darkness. It’s only difference being the dark passion that was contained in that single smile.

Footsteps from the outside, and Sammy leaned his body on the box, like a Pharaoh would in his coffin. Though the space was quite tight, Sammy didn’t stop himself from raising the axe, ready for anything. If Thomas’s Miracle Station didn’t work, he still had the axe. He could still fight.

Before the pounding earlier turned into a whisper.

Bendy turned a corner elsewhere, disappearing into another area in the mammoth animation studio. That meant that Sammy was safe, at least fleetingly. That’s why the pounding stopped, and Sammy could clearly see the walls again, naturally stained with ink.

Sammy opened the door, stepping out, axe raised. But Bendy was gone, not a single creature in sight. No use for his reflexes.

He stuck the axe onto the floor, growling in disappointment. Was there anybody who stood in this studio ever not a wuss? Was anyone ready to fight at all instead of die and die over and over? Sammy was, that’s for sure. He wasn’t like everybody else. He took his jobs seriously, even when he hated it.

Joey’s cliche songs were a loop, so he always added his own twists. And that always gave them awards that he didn’t receive. Joey’s hands were always raising the bacon, and Sammy’s hands were carrying the papers relating to all the assignments he had for the week.

_Write a song. Teach the song. Perform the song._

That’s the only treatment he ever received, and he wasn’t satisfied. Not even when he grew older, that burning strop was always one that reappeared in his dreams, may those dreams be heaven or hell. A reminder of who he once served, who he once was a device for

Forget him.

Sammy didn’t want to return to his sanctuary, not yet. If Bendy were there, then he’d have to run back here, and he didn’t want to waste his energy on doing that again. He’d just napped. Though he wasn’t sure for how long, sleep was sleep, and charge was charge.

He decided to go for the stairs, and up them. If he were to be safe anywhere, it’d be there. He slung his axe over a shoulder, rolling his neck as he did so. Though made of ink, he heard the cracks. Good. At least that human element was still present.

The top of the stairs was like every other corridor: walls and doors. Endless. Sammy decided to continue walking. As he got deeper, posters began popping out on the walls. The fact that he knew they were Henry’s work made things feel better. He wondered how that old man was doing now. Maybe he was here, somewhere, a victim to Joey’s evil scheme.

Then what did that make Linda? A widow? Surely enough, when you enter the animation studio, there’s no such thing as return. It’s imprisonment, banishment, and eternal youth. Sammy did feel younger, younger than those days he hunted for a wife. But he remained single, his heart only set for one woman.

Before he lost her.

There was a noise of a falling can slapping on the floor, and Sammy had the axe out, his legs wide, ready to fight. He allowed the tension to go all throughout his body, so no part of it was unprepared. In front of him, from behind a wall, an empty can of Bacon Soup rolled towards his feet, and Sammy could only hide his confusion as he stared at it.

“Who goes there?” Sammy demanded, but his voice was the only reply.

Then from behind the wall, a figure stepped out. Clean, white overalls and dark shoes, a long snout with long ears. Four fingers in gloves in both hands, and pie eyes formed in a very timid shape.

Sammy lowered his axe. “Boris? Boris the Wolf?” He took a breath that was somewhat ragged. “How could it be possible? You’re supposed to just be a cartoon character!” _With that the case, then why am I here? Who am I now? What’s happening?_ He wanted to ask so bad, but Sammy kept the thoughts to himself. He squinted, but Boris probably didn’t see it. “How am I supposed to tell if you’re friend or foe?” He asked suspiciously.

Boris merely shrugged. It was then that Sammy realized that this Boris couldn’t speak.

Sammy didn’t give up. “Do you think _I’m_ friend or foe?”

Boris didn’t answer the question. He turned and ran the other way, coming back a moment later to deliver something to Sammy. A banjo. One he never knew was missing thirty years ago, but now remembered as the third banjo he ever received as a present from one of the studio’s numerous workers.

Sammy glanced up, Boris waiting for an answer.

“Impossible,” Sammy finally said. “This should’ve been trashed years ago. I…I didn’t even return home with this!”

Boris gave the former music director a thumbs up.

Sammy tried strumming it, and like a miracle, it was in tune. “You tuned this for me?”

Boris was quiet.

Sammy took that as a yes. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, but truthfully. Sammy just didn’t find himself as the type of person who’d let that side of him show. Scanning the room, he found a leash by a corner, took it, and tied one end to the fingerboard, another on the peg by its base. He slung it over his body, rotating the banjo to his back.

If he had eyebrows, Boris looked like he lifted them. And that was all he did.

Sammy inclined his head slightly to the side, clutching the handle to the axe again tightly. “Something tells me there are more things you wished to show me.”

 

* * *

 

_‘SHE’S QUITE A GAL’_

Susie scoffed at the sign that stretched over her halo. Quite a gal, it said, but was she really? Did Allison Pendle make Alice Angel the ‘gal’ that they spoke off in their banners and posters, all the merchandise that circled Alice Angel? Shawn Flynn didn’t think so. All he did was snort without amusement when anyone bought Alice’s toys. She wasn’t popular at all in those old days.

Because Susie wasn’t involved?

Susie wanted to think it was the case. But she got the feeling that Joey and the rest were still proud of Allison’s efforts. During the times Alice’s episodes got low ratings, they’d pat her back, and try to improve their mistakes by telling the scriptwriters to up their game.

Then of course, there was Thomas Connor. Her lover.

Now her husband, wherever the heck they were.

Susie found an elongated machine by the big sliding doors atop a wide set of stairs. She couldn’t recall if this thing was here before she separated from the Bendy crew, but for certain, it seemed to call for her. So Susie placed a hand on the machine’s side, and punched it with as much force as she can manage.

There, after the back of the thing spun, was a gun. And because it was hidden here by either Tom or anyone in the Gent group, she wanted to call it her Tommy Gun. Or for it was literally just a Tommy gun, but naming it after Tom was cuter than that label.

Named after Tom, but there was much, much more than that.

Susie also took the extra bullets by the machine, stacking them in a small pouch that she hid beneath the bow tucked at her back. Perfectly hidden, and usable whenever she pleases. Good. To become the perfect angel, she had to have people have faith in her, see her as their guide.

Guardian angel. But where will she find them in this huge universe, filled with losers?

She didn’t want to return to the Ink Machine. There was no way any of those Lost Ones would find her suitable. No. She had to go way deeper than that. And she needed to be beautiful. She needed to fight for her glory, her story to have a happy ending. No more torment and red marks. She deserved so much more.

Susie clicked the Tommy gun into place, adding a few bullets in. She focused then on a specific spot on the wall, and angled the gun. Squinting, adjusting. Then aimed, the gesture triggering her back in a force that surprised her. The shot sailed a few inches above what she wished, but it was close enough. She couldn’t deny that the shot was good for a trial.

If it were already a real battle, Susie might’ve missed. Because of pressure and anxiety. Blind from pride.

She wasn’t going to let that happen. She was going to be beautiful again.

“Hit me! Hit me!”

And Susie did, aiming the gunshots at the sound of the command. A member of the Butcher Gang collapsed on the tiles, black blood seeping out beneath him. When she neared him, she found that her bullets protruded through his gut. And ‘his’ was ‘Barley’s’ gut. The pirate member of the trio Susie had always laughed at while watching episodes of Bendy with the rest of the crew, once it was finished.

Barley was cuter then. Presently, he was dead.

But this wasn’t the last Barley in the studio, for Susie knew that the Ink Machine had made thousands and millions of Barley’s. Somewhere, locked inside closed and locked doors, was an army of Butcher Gang members who were dying to be free.

Were they former employees too? Or were they just creatures brought to life from nothing at all? It didn’t matter. Butcher Gang members were perfect.

She just needed them, and the blueprints to the Ink Machine.

Clicking to place in her mind, and she would be the perfect angel. Susie chuckled at the thought of it.

_Dreams come true, Susie._

Not before. But Susie was going to change it all, right here, right now. She had two agendas, and she was going to get right to it.

Turning back to Barley, Susie was surprised to see his visible eye staring at her. She grinned, a hand on her hip as she rested the gun on her shoulders. “You were hit. How does that suit you, Barley?”

He merely squinted his eye, unresponsive. Then he melted into a puddle of ink, sinking and phasing through the floor. Like magic. Like fantasy powers. Unexplainable tricks conducted by Joey Drew. Susie huffed, going down the stairs again. She headed for the opposite side of the room, awaiting anything. She was prepared.

As expected, Barley was here again, but of course, a different version. And this one was beside and Edgar.

She didn’t want to kill them, but only hurt them, get them to talk. Even if that was difficult, for they were those types of creatures who did nothing more than grumble and strike. She had to put herself in the shoes of a trickster to be able to fool them.

Specifically, put herself in the shoes of Joey Drew.

Susie was smarter than him, and these Gang members were dumb. She raised her chin, walking up to them. Edgar made a move to strike her with an expandable fist, but Susie gunned that hand off. Both Edgar and Barley looked completely taken back by her maneuver. Their pie eyes were wide, their mouths slightly widened. Even with Barley’s head suspended on a wire, the surprise was evident.

“Boys,” Susie purred. “May I know your base?”

Edgar and Barley exchanged glances. Okay, maybe they were not so dumb after all. Those certainly weren’t looks traded by fools, but thinkers. Ink monsters, but bright. Interesting…

Susie took another step towards them, her form casting a dark shadow on the duo that nervously stepped back. “Do you know who I am?”

Edgar mumbled. Barley made a sound. Susie could only guess that those responses were like Morse, understood by those who spoke it and learned it. And she didn’t speak Ink Creature. She was still bearing a human’s intellectual mind. Not some trashed, blob of a creature made with unknown purposes.

Susie twisted the question for them. “Do you know who you are?”

Because they were no longer Barley and Edgar to her. They weren’t the toons from those old days. These were monsters. They had no relationship whatsoever with the Butcher Gang. These were the Fisher and the Striker speaking to her in their own Morse.

From the way they shifted their poses, they themselves were unsure of who they were. They must’ve been some of those who woke up with only one goal imprinted in their brains: to destroy. Or Joey had other plans that backfired, the way they backfired for Susie.

Susie sweetly placed a hand on Edgar’s--Striker’s--shoulder. “You are a Striker. And you will show me your friends.”

He understood, but didn’t move.

Susie smirked, her half-full, half-twisted lips a murderer’s grin. “And I, your angel.”

Barley’s--Fisher’s--ragged voice suddenly spoke up lowly, sounding like a gurgle and slightly like a pirate’s battle cry. “You are the angel of the Demon’s devil.”

They were without a doubt talking about Bendy. There was no other person they could be referring to, not here. Unless it was Joey Drew, which Susie appreciated for agreeing on her thoughts of being an angel. Sides. They were choosing sides. And so far, Susie felt as if they were picking hers. Smitten by her. Controlled.

Striker rubbed his decapitated arm with one of his other arms. “Follow.” He said, his voice a copy of the Fisher’s.

Susie smiled triumphantly.

As they walked down the corridor, Susie asked, “What do you know about inky hearts, boys?”

Striker and Fisher gave her timorous looks.


	3. There's No Turning Back Now

 

Allison remembered the day she was hired, when she wrapped her arms unknowingly around Tom when she was successful. And as an effect, pushed Susie Campbell away from Sammy Lawrence. Allison remembered the tears pooling from Susie’s eyes, the way Sammy clenched his fists as he struggled to look her in the eye. Allison remembered herself, standing in complete shock, untouchable, the center of a battle between former lovers. Only when Tom came to her side did she return to her senses, and Susie stormed out of the recording booth, Sammy unable to follow her. 

_Allison looked over the lyrics, then at Sammy’s face. She found it hard to connect these lovely words to the uninterested look on the songwriter’s face. Words of someone so in-need of love, and Sammy, as someone who looked so bored in life. But he still pointed to the words, singing them, then having her do it._

_He had a beautiful voice, Allison thought. From the corner of her eye, she could’ve sworn that Thomas was glaring at them, his eyes like piercing daggers. He mustn’t have enjoyed her spending too much time with Sammy. Allison assumed he was taken while Thomas was not._

_Sammy cleared his throat. “Okay. For this part, it’s sang like this:_

 

 _‘And when I fall it's into your arms,_  
_I never could resist all your charms,_  
_You devil~'"_

 

_Sammy flushed lightly then. It was likely due to the persona’s gender to be female while he himself was a male. Allison didn’t think it was something to be embarrassed about, especially not when the words seemed true. Genuine even, as if he had written this song from heart, as a person, and not for any cartoon._

_If that was the case, then Sammy must be one with a lot of secrets._

_“You try,” Sammy said._

_Allison opened her mouth and copied his demonstration. When she was done, Sammy dipped his chin once. No words, no clue if he was satisfied or not. That was just the case when it was Sammy. Difficult to understand, only because he was the only one who wanted to understand himself._

_“Can you sing it from the top?” Sammy asked her, shuffling the papers to put the song’s beginning as the first paper that was stacked on the small table in the recording booth. At least he asked nicely, and was being gentle to her. Is it for she was a female? She amused herself with the idea that he would be tearing his hair apart if he were tutoring another guy._

_“I’ll try,” Allison responded. “Just…don’t think it’s already perfect, Mr. Lawrence.” She added truthfully, and Sammy nodded. He looked so bored. He didn’t want to be here, to talk to her, to help her learn his song. He just wanted to leave, have her understand the song herself. Yet here he was._

_“I'm just a lonely angel,_  
_Sitting here on a shelf,_  
_At times, it seemed, if I just dreamed,_  
_I'd not be by myself~"_

_Throughout the song, Allison found herself with a few voice cracks, times she jumbled the was the tones were, rising or falling, her pitches, her inserted giggles to fit the character she was singing as. Once she reached the stopping point and looked at Sammy for comments, his eyes held satisfaction that betrayed the sour look on his face. “Not bad.” Was all he said. But Allison was taken back by the slight quiver that crept into his words._

_He didn’t care. He continued. “The next part goes this was, Ms. Pendle. ‘It’s far too late--’”_

_“Sammy?”_

_Both Sammy and Allison turned, finding themselves face-to-face with Susie Campbell. Her eyes were wide with shock, her hair a mess, some sticking out of her bun. Her hands were ready to cup her mouth from horror. Beside Allison, Sammy’s lackadaisical face shifted to surprise._

_Susie stepped closer to them. “Sammy…isn’t this our song?”_

_Shoot, Allison thought. Susie got closer, and Sammy stepped further. But Susie didn’t stop. “Sammy, is that Allison? What is she doing here? Isn’t it time for me to sing?”_

_Wait. Allison searched through the song’s papers, and at one point found a dark mark that crossed out something by the paper’s corner, replaced with Allison’s name. Then it dawned to her. Alice Angel was supposed to be voiced by Susie Campbell, not Allison. Allison was a replacement for the girl who stood in front of her and the Music Director._

_‘Lonely Angel’ Sang by: ~~Susie Campbell~~  Allison Pendle_

_When Sammy replied, Allison heard him try to keep his voice even. “They didn’t tell you yet? Alice Angel is now to be voiced by Ms. Allison Pendle…” He trailed off as he made a gesture to Allison, who only met Susie’s shining eyes. “I didn’t know about it, I swear,” Sammy continued. “And I wasn’t trying to be--”_

_“You were smiling,” Susie said with defeat and disbelief. “I saw you, Sam. You were having a good time listening to HER sing! You knew! You always knew! And you didn’t tell me!” She was crying now, the other employees and band members’ heads turned their way. Thomas looked ready to get closer._

_The sad thing was that Allison didn’t see him smile. Only a hint of it in his eyes. That meant that Susie cared for him deeply, and was one of the few people who understood him. And to have saw that passion and relief in his eyes when he heard the voice that didn’t belong to that woman who loved him…_

_“I didn’t! I wasn’t!” Sammy said, trying to force more anger than hurt into his voice. And from the way he managed that, it made Susie feel that he was mad at her. Allison couldn’t stand looking at their faces anymore, but for some reason, she still did._

_“You’re a liar, Sammy Lawrence,” Susie said, tears still falling. “You gave me hope then, too. Now all you do is crush my dreams. We made that song together. You said I’d sing while you’d play, and it will be like heaven opened its doors to let us sing in their choir of angels. But look at you. With another girl. I would’ve thought you’d be there for me.”_

_Thomas was at their side now, frowning deeply at the other female as Allison backed into him. Sammy shook his head. It looked all new to him, as if he prayed that this wasn’t going to happen. Here it was. Not according to Sammy’s plan. Allison saw all hope drain from his face, guilt crawl into his features. Defeated. Caught. “Don’t think that, Susie! Why would…this isn’t what…You can’t possibly--!”_

_“Save it. I was never your angel, Sammy. Now I won’t be anybody’s.” Susie turned and ran, pushing past Henry and Joey who tried to interfere but were ignored._

_“Susie!” Sammy tried to follow, but thought to do otherwise. He stared dejectedly at the papers, their song, and was quiet. Thomas rubbed his back for a bit before leaving the two of them together again to continue with his work, telling the other people to do the same._

_Allison wasn’t sure how many minutes passed, but it felt like hours. Sammy was so quiet, so unresponsive. Eventually, he turned to her, returning the papers to their proper order. “I apologize for the interruption, Ms. Pendle,” he whispered. “Let’s get back to work. You’ve been doing spectacular. We can finish this.” Trying to be stronger by looking at the bright side. Still, Allison felt that she herself was no bright side for Sammy, not now, or forever. He lowered his eyes to the sheets. “Where were we?”_

_“‘It’s far too late’,” Allison replied._

_“Ah, yes,” Sammy said._

_“It's far too late--my soul can't be saved,_  
_'Cause when I hear you calling my name,_  
_You angel~"_

_Allison had never heard the song sound so broken before._

A sound ran through the other corridor, and Allison’s sword was out. Tom looked just as ready with his Gent pipe, making Boris’s friendly face look fierce and invulnerable. Allison followed the sound, turned the same corner, found herself staring at nothing. Nothing but an endless road.

Tom was behind her, both hands gripping the pipe.

“Nobody’s here,” Allison announced. She was turned around when Tom struck. She spun, and found Tom swiping his pipe at a swollen ink creature; him and a disfigured copy of a member of the Butcher Gang. Charley, was it? Allison couldn’t recall enough. There were too many fictional characters in her mind to name each and every one of them.

“Tom!” She called, but her husband ignored her as he dodged and stroke. His pipe landed cleanly on top of Charley’s head, and the monster collapsed on the floor. The swollen creature resumed his punches, one that landed square at Tom’s gut. As he doubled over, Allison leaped over his bent form, her sword splitting the swollen creature’s body into two parts. He rained down as ink on Charley, and both descended into the floorboards, defeated.

Allison ran for her husband. She placed a hand on his cheek, and he looked at her--Boris’s eyes, but Tom’s soul. “Are you okay?” She asked him.

He stood up, reaching for his fallen Gent pipe. He looked ready to say something sarcastic, but without the ability to speak, he didn’t. He just huffed and began walking the other way, Allison following. Also, if he had a mouth, he’d be cursing. Continuously.

Then there was a wave of dark streaks that engulfed the walls of the corridor. Allison and Tom froze at the sound of their heartbeats beginning to pound, and the spots that began dancing in their eyes. Their grips tightened, their knees weakened.

“It’s Bendy,” Allison announced, and Tom nodded.

Returning to the way they came, they walked quickly but quietly, as to not attract the Ink Demon. They’ve had a wrong experience before of running and trying to fight. Twice, they almost lost each other. But twice, they survived. They were still together, deciphering the dark patterns of Bendy’s world.

Both knew that they wouldn’t fit inside one Miracle Station, so they went to the direction of the elevator, no matter the distance. To escape Bendy, they’d do whatever it takes. But he never seemed to get distant, only closer. Playful.

When they did reach the elevator, they went inside, Tom pushing the close button. The doors shut, and through the holes they saw Bendy. The dark demon with his unfaltering smile, his walk limped, his shoulders uneven. The ink that ran down his body in rivulets, and the swirling darkness that spun in the atmosphere he passed.

There was a time that Allison might’ve feared him. She currently knew that he was not the biggest problem. And Bendy himself saw an enigma. His creation was for intentions unknown by Allison, but known by Tom.

They’ve never had that conversation before. But now, while he was Boris and she was Alice Angel, she wanted to so badly. Shameful he couldn’t speak, even when he desperately wanted to tell her. He even begged her to forgive him for not spilling the beans to her sooner.

Bendy was slowly vanishing from their view, a clue that they were almost safe. Concluded was the thought when the ink stains disappeared. They stepped out, running to the opposite direction.

Allison couldn’t help but sigh. It was like this almost everyday, always without anything to change the loop of this dark world. Don’t give up, she’d tell herself. There has to be a way, another path. Tom was the first to stop, checking through the hole of a door. His pipe was sturdy. His eyes alert. Fearless, he stepped inside, motioning Allison to follow. She did, finding him crouching at the bottom.

“What’s going on?” She questioned, but he pulled her down, wrapping an arm around her with protection, as his other arm pushed the door shut. He squinted, ears twitching. He heard something, Allison realized, for his ears were definitely stronger that hers. And this wasn’t’ something they’d normally fight.

Cluttering steps from the corridor, suddenly present. Allison leaned on the door to listen as she kept herself huddled against Tom. They heard a female’s voice, and what sounded like smaller creatures. Butcher Gang members, to be specific.

“Bendy is one to ascend from the darkest realms, but he is to descend there too. I’ll be certain of it. I will set us free.” The woman was saying, her voice broad as she spoke. “Those hearts you told me of? They’re little tidbits of a masterpiece I wish to create. So you must help me, if you can. Believe me, I will help you too.”

What was there to believe? This place was everything but believable, for all that’s believable is that eventually, everyone will drown in ink, in lost memories, in amalgamations of consciences that never end their battles.

One of the members of the Butcher Gang responded roughly, like he was in a trance. “No belief. We die.” He thought so too.

The woman scoffed. “You want to die?”

“That is all we do.”

“You are scared?”

“Fear is an excuse.”

The woman didn’t reply then, and Allison wished to see her face. Her expression on the gang member’s confessions. Tom’s ears twitched again, his fingers digging in on her skin. He looked angry, like there was something he recognized.

The lady continued. “So, will you let me help you? You don’t need to die anymore.”

“We do not fear death.” The other member insisted, slightly irritated. From what they were hearing, this lady was forcing something upon them that they had hesitation to accept. It was a correct move, as it was not easy to know who to trust anymore. You can only rely on a long-time partner to get you through all those crooked terms of this empire.

“So you remember dying?” The woman asked, suspense in her tone. Allison and Tom exchanged a look. She was right--these creatures know that they’ve died, many times. Did that mean they’ve died that many times? Did Allison and Tom really encounter these guys that much as to let them recall their endless cycles of rebirth? The woman asked, “Do you remember who killed you?”

The gang member was quiet for a moment. Then, a gurgling sound. That was his only reply, and the woman wasn’t satisfied with that. “I knew you were idiots.” She said, as they turned another corner.

Allison counted ten seconds, then did they release each other. Already, Allison's heart was beating. Never have they ever heard that woman's voice before, never when they explored. It was a point for them, knowing that possible change was coming, and maybe, if they prayed hard enough--freedom. “Thanks for the warning,” Allison whispered. “Do you have an idea who that was?”

Normally, Tom would have replied with a nod or a head-shake, following that with a gesture that Allison would understand. This time, Tom did none of those things. He didn’t meet her eyes. It was obvious now that he knew, but didn’t wish to tell her.

“C’mon, Tom,” Allison pressed. “You’ve gotta tell me.”

Tom searched. Searched for any puddle, any stain. When he did, he scribbled words on the floor. __On old friend--a new foe,__ was shat he wrote.

Allison stood, pushing the door. “Come then. We must follow them.” She made a move for outside, and Tom followed.

Their voices drifted down the hall. Allison tip-toed with her sword ready, boots no louder than a pin’s dropping. By the corner, Allison peeked, and found the backside of a woman with dark hair and a black skirt, her legs covered in black ink. She had horns, and half of a halo attached to her head. In front of her were an Edgar and a Barley.

Another Alice Angel.

That couldn’t have been possible. She…she had died years ago. So long ago, Allison remembered well. She had wept then, even when they were not the closest of friends. Tom had put an arm around her, his eyes cast in shadow due to his hair, lips pressed. Henry and Norman had her old lover in a tight embrace…

It couldn’t be…yet…that voice. Allison shook her head. She wasn’t going to jump into conclusions. They had to investigate first before anything else.

They waited until the woman and the gang members turned another corner. Then they followed, attaching themselves to the wall furthest from them.

Their voices were floating again audibly. “And this leads where again?” Alice Angel asked Edgar.

Edgar didn’t respond, nor did Barley. They limped, eyes set on the path in front of them, which was now a different chamber. It opened to a room full of planks that stood from a pool of dark ink that took up the space of the whole room. And on those planks, others drenched and submerged in the ink-pool--hundreds of copies of Charley, Barley, Edgar, and Boris.

Enough for an ink army.

Allison and Tom only stared from the distance in horror and awe as Alice stepped into the room, arms wide like a leader’s, in amazement. Edgar and Barley had dispersed themselves into the crowd, which stared at Alice in multiple emotions crossed on their faces.

“Joey would be so proud…” Alice whispered. “I need their hearts…”

Then a giant figure’s hands grabbed the napes of Tom and Allison, who yelped in surprise as light began flashing brightly from behind them, accompanied by a high-pitched roar.


	4. Down Here, We're All Sinners

 

Long ago, Norman Polk was known for his duty as a projectionist. If this hideous _thing_  was a result of Joey Drew’s little project, then Susie wasn’t surprised. The Projectionist’s slick fingers curled around the necks of a Boris clone and another person, whom Susie had a hard time identifying. Not with the Butcher Gang members and other Boris’s that were gathering up in front of her in an attempt to attack the Projectionist.

The Projectionist shrieked, lights flashing and blinding Susie. She yelped, stepping back as her hands shielded her eyes. “Release them!” She helplessly yelled, but not with full intention of her words. As upcoming angel of beauty and perfection, Susie just found it wise to let others see an at least better side of her.

Of course, the Projectionist didn’t listen. If anything, he was even more angered at the Butcher Gang members crawling in on him, the Boris clone and other girl hanging from his iron grip. The Boris clone didn’t choke. He swung his Gent pipe with so much force at the direction to the Projectionist’s side. The girl too, stabbing with that long sword of hers.

The Butcher Gang advanced. Boris clones were fleeing. Susie can only stare in horror, raising her Tommy gun with difficulty in finding a nice shot to strike. There was so much movement, and the Projectionist’s lights caused epilepsy and pain in her retina.

It was chaos. It was loud, brutal, scary, dark. Bloody ink flew above their heads, other members of the Butcher Gang stepped on by other gang members and Boris clones. The wooden planks were broken, some dripping with ink of the fallen. So much brightness, so much darkness, so much anger and fear mixed in the air. And all Susie thought about was herself.

She mattered most in all this.

The other woman’s voice rang through all the noise. “Get out of here!”

If that order was for Susie or the Projectionist, she didn’t know. All she knew is that she wanted to at least get one shot on a target, then get away. Flee for her beauty, her pride. Still, she was blocked from her intention on the Projectionist’s naughty head, swaying in attempt to protect himself from a dark army and two prisoners who didn’t stop fighting.

As for Bendy…

Oh, he’d be here soon. He’ll kill everyone with just one waltz down the floor. His presence itself is a warning, an epiphany of death. He was surely coming, triggered by the war that played itself in his home, here at this certain spot.

If Susie were to leave, she had to do it now.

So she gunned the ceiling above the Projectionist.

Twice.

Three times.

Wooden floorboards began falling down, and the others looked up in surprise of both gunshot and cracking. Splinters rained down on the Projectionist, and he released the aggressive Boris clone with the Gent pipe. And upon hitting the ground, the clone leaped again, pipe connecting perfectly on the Projectionist’s projection head. He screamed again, but still firmly held the woman. Yet she didn’t look weakened or tired in any slight way.

The floorboards were as strong as a waterfall. They slammed down so violently that other gang members were smashed into puddles of ink that splashed on the closest things to them. Wood broke, and the inky moat beneath them erupted with each plank, others drowning in ink, gurgling as they did so.

Others continued to fight. Fisher heads were like mini wrecking balls, the legs of the Projectionist their targets to bring down. But the Projectionist kicked, stepped back. Fishers weren’t any helpful, nor were the extending arms of Strikers and the punches sent from Charley clones--Pipers.

That Boris clone was the strongest warrior in this battlefield. He bounced behind the Projectionist, who whirled to face him. More light, but he didn’t seem bothered. He was only getting started. He grabbed the closest Butcher Gang clone and tossed it on the Projectionist’s face, distracting him. Then he quickly made it to the Projectionist’s body, stabbing the pipe he had into his gut.

Lights. Screaming. He released the woman, who landed on her feet, sword ready.

Susie smirked in approval.

Recovering from the wound, the Projectionist advanced, fists ready. Butcher Gang clones finally let fear and retreat into their systems as they began to run away, leaving the bodies of fallen members and dark puddles of ink that sank into the veins of the Ink Machine.

Susie decided to follow them. There was still enough of an army here that were cowards, that still had beating hearts. Those two warriors had their own empire to run, one that involved escape or doors of death. They had it under control, and didn’t need Susie’s help. She was completely safe now, with the army of ugly things that will feed to her beauty. How many things it will be to bring her back her beauty, even if it meant doing bad things.

Angel work, little errands.

Susie turned, glancing once more at the two warriors who showed no sign of giving up, even as she lost sight of them when she entered another world in the animation studio.

 

* * *

 

Thomas felt pumped. Felt like laughing in approval. Stepping in inky puddles of blood, battling another creature of the dark…this was an adventure that he approved of. This was more than just a few attackers. This was once a worker turned twisted, just like himself, just like his wife, and just like that Alice Angel woman who decided to shoot the ceiling.

He had to admit that the deed was helpful. If it weren’t for that, he’d still be locked in the Projectionist’s hold. As well as Allison. So in a way, Thomas was thankful for that. Even if she later chose to abandon them to deal with the Projectionist.

With that gun, she could’ve been a huge help. If they had known sooner, they could’ve opened a shot for her to shoot at. But like any other coward, she left, following the footsteps of monsters without critical thinking, without true souls inside them.

Another thing: Thomas didn’t want to confess that he knew that the woman was Susie Campbell.

He had an idea that Allison might have picked that up already. Still, seeing her standing after years thinking she had died was…bringing neutral feelings inside Thomas. The former actress of Alice Angel, now inside that body.

But she didn’t look good. Her face was mangled, full of pitiless spots. Her eyes were full of lust, and her posture told pride, power. She stood taller than she had before, when she was admired by almost everybody in the animation studio. Then, Susie Campbell was beautiful, inside and out. She had said so many flattering words for those whose mouths were glued with gloom. Her smile had always been warm, full of brightness that illuminated any demons or Bendies that were roaming in the mind.

That all changed when viewed again. She was a villain, a madwoman who was betrayed and abandoned. Thomas wished to know if she knew that a fake death was announced, or if she was behind it or involved. Either way, she was alive. And Thomas wasn’t sure if he were to be happy about that or not.

Allison shrieked as her sword connected to the Projectionist’s leg. Dark ink splattered on her dark skirt, but she didn’t care. She resumed her battle, stood her ground.

Thomas followed her lead. He continued his own battle, piercing his pipe into the monster’s shin.

No. This couldn’t have been any monster. This was Norman Polk, the studio’s hiding eyes who saw everything, even those little webs that wove themselves in the shadows. Those eyes of his always got him in trouble, yet he got away with it, having being able to help in so many other ways.

Norman was possibly just defending himself now. He might’ve thought that they were foes, more creatures constructed through the Ink Machine. He didn’t recognize his old friends, his companions for so long, before the passage of thirty years.

Thomas climbed Norman’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck, or what might’ve been. Then he pulled mercilessly, ignoring the ringing in his ears burned by the Projectionist’s crying. Allison swept her leg across Norman’s, and Thomas jumped off as the Projectionist crumbled to the ground, light flickering.

He had enough. The Projectionist didn’t look ready to stand, not for another few hours, at most.

Allison ducked her head sadly. “I’m sorry.” She whispered.

That apology was not for Thomas. It was for their old friend.

She sheathed her sword, her eyes searching for the path Susie had gone to. It was difficult to tell in the darkness, and by the fact that they were the only people who were here. All around lay corpses and puddles. “Let’s go.” She said, beginning her stride.

Thomas found that last glance at Norman, and he felt guilty for leaving him behind. But he knew that the action would be wrong, for Norman would just try to fight again. Might as well have left him distracted and weakened for now instead of killed. 

If anyone did kill him, at least Allison and Thomas wouldn't be here to see him go. And see him be brought back, just to realize that Norman's jumbled brain would only strive for the same goal to fight and sulk in the silence.

As they were walking, they didn’t mutter a word, not even an audible breath. The pain of seeing Susie and Norman at the same day at the same time in a way that made them look so mutilated…it was worse than seeing an old friend change personalities after a long-time trip abroad. It was seeing that they might never be the same again.

Finally, Allison said what was on Thomas’s mind. “Susie Campbell?”

Thomas nodded.

She sighed. “I knew I recognized that voice…and those eyes.” She pushed a strand of hair from her face. “It makes me wonder how Sammy would react to that. If he were still alive and healthy.” She slid her gaze to Thomas’s, meeting his eyes. “How many others do you think are stuck here, Tom? Are there more?”

Thomas hated the pain in her voice, in the question. It was difficult to bear the idea that they weren’t the only ones suffering, carrying Joey’s ruins on their shoulders, viewing their old friends as potential enemies. Norman and Susie were confirmed. Others were split.

Sammy. Wally. Grant. Shawn. Jack. Bertrum. Lacie. Henry. Even Buddy and Dot. If they were out there in the world, experiencing laughs, holding hands with eternal partners, staring at the joyous shapes of clouds, and counting the stars that streaked the night sky, Thomas and Allison’s burdens will definitely lighten. Maybe they’d even smile, one that lasted longer than a recurring joke shared between them.

Then Allison’s eyes darkened, shadows crossing her eyes. “What did she mean by ‘I need their hearts’?”

Now Thomas’s mood shifted too. Not just by Allison’s question, but by the conversation earlier. It was evident that Susie had a plan, one that involved the Butcher Gang, and freedom. Freedom from this realm of sorrow, from Bendy’s unintentional reign. And death. She granted them the promise that they will never die again.

Why?

Thomas shrugged his shoulders, angrily clutching his pipe. If Susie were creating something grand, then it was possible that it was also destined to fall. Even with Susie’s charms back in those old days, she was easy to manipulate, easy to call…a swear word. So Thomas wasn’t sure if any promise by Susie was one to look forward to.

It might even be a lie.

If Thomas was given a choice to stop that plan, he would kill her. Mercy was just a hole that led way to vulnerability, and for the sake of survival, for tasting freedom again, they needed to be thick-skinned, intellectual, observing, and carrying knowledge of who to trust.

If Thomas had to become a sinner for their greater good, he would do it. Here, nobody was an exception from that rule.

And to save anyone else when the path of freedom is upon them, that was just luck. If Norman woke up to see open doors that Allison and Thomas held, his escape was through luck. Not intention. In the studio, it was only one’s life that mattered.

For Thomas and Allison, one’s life meant both of theirs. They didn’t wear those rings with the intention of leaving the other behind.

__‘_ Till death do us part._

They needed to learn of Susie’s plans. Knowing that there were so many clones that build an army, things were going to be getting treacherous. If it was against Bendy too, things weren’t just treacherous. It was going to be like releasing hell into the studio.

Susie’s allegiance would only be known if they found out.

Thomas trudged ahead, for once happy to be turned into a Boris clone. Boris’s nose sniffed the air of death, of life, of anyone walking through these halls. His ears heard the cries of panic, wails of the spared. For now. It was no competition if they’d die soon, or if they’ll live long enough to be set free.

That is, if they will be set free.

When Thomas felt his cheeks warm, it was because Allison suddenly clutched his hand from behind him. It was surprisingly warm, as if there were still a trace of humanity buried under that thick ink that enveloped her hand, which Thomas managed to touch. The touch itself held promise, strength, everything Thomas wanted to feel now. He looked over at Allison with surprise.

“We can’t have anybody sneak up on us again,” Allison said. “Lead us, Tom. I’ll watch our behinds. Hold my hand, so that we can feel each other, and so that we will continue to be together.” She squeezed his hand tighter, her thumb slightly brushing his.

Continue to be together, as to never split up. No matter what, Thomas and Allison would continue this journey together, like they always used to, like every other day in suffering. Each day filled with fear, with anticipation, and with disappointment on hopes for a new tomorrow. With potential threats like Susie, Bendy, and the Butcher Gang members, they can have more trials ahead. But clasped hands will stand as their strongest weapon, stronger than a sword and a Gent pipe combined. It will stand as a weapon that reminds them that they share a common goal of freedom, and that they will achieve that goal together.

Before Thomas could nod, he placed his other hand on Allison’s, sandwiching it in his Boris hands. Thomas felt the sadness in seeing those hands that aren’t his on hers, but from the look on Allison’s face, she didn’t care. Thomas’s hands were still owned by the soul that belonged to Thomas, meaning this Boris clone’s hands were still Thomas to her.

Thomas was glad he married her.

Allison smirked, placing her other hand on his. They were staring at each other now, in the darkness, their only viewers the shadows and the ink. Then Allison stood on her tiptoes, leaned forward towards him, and kissed him.

On the snout, but Thomas didn’t feel awkward. His promise on the altar remained the same, and travelling through this inky prison was just a test to its stability. He still loved her. It never dwindled, never faded. So he kissed her back, one hand leaving their clasp to hold her waist as she moved closer.

This kiss…Thomas didn’t want to assume that this was going to be their last kiss. They would survive, they would return home in that beautiful house, and will find solace in a beautiful backyard that the sun set by. They’d kiss there, and under the stars.

All it took was a bit more pushing.

Allison kissed him first, and released first. Her hand was still clasped with his, a smile tugging her mouth as her free hand unsheathed her sword, then she turned the other way. Thomas followed her, Gent pipe in hand as he began their trudge, he moving on, she moving back.

They will find a way. They had to.

_'Till death do us part._


	5. Death In Every Direction

 

The first thing they heard was the chaotic noise and screaming. The second thing was the gunshots. The first thing they saw was the valley of corpses. The second thing they saw was the body of a man with a projection for a head. With no doubt: Norman Polk.

And he was standing up, elbows trembling as he tried to sturdy himself, light flashing. And from the stiffness in his shoulders, he was mad. Really, really mad. Ready to turn any blob of ink into a puddle, even if it was as tall as a statue of Bendy.

Sammy’s axe was ready just by the sight, Boris cowering a few feet behind him. The banjo remained slung over Sammy’s back, and realizing the possible outcome of that decision, removed it from his back and tossed it to Boris, who caught it without issue.

When the Projectionist was finally standing, he walked forward, away from them. Sammy had to admit that he was a little bit bewildered by the weak senses of the Projectionist, dismissing their presence as if he saw them like Bendy cutouts or Boris posters. Sammy gritted his teeth in frustration.

Walking closer to what used to be Norman, Sammy studied his injuries, which were quickly being woven shut by the ink. Stab-wounds, splinters that were etched onto his body. His head had scratches, as if they’d been slammed with weaponry. Something hard, something that can be used for a weapon. If there was anything less stable than an axe.

Sammy was about to strike the Projectionist’s backside before Boris out a hand on his shoulder, a finger to his lip to shush him. Sammy frowned, but steadied himself, only watching the Projectionist step his long ranges, light flaring as his head switched directions to scan the path he took. He was completely vulnerable.

Yet Boris’s hand was firm, his face as strict as he can manage.

They waited until the Projectionist had left before Sammy finally threw Boris’s hand off him. “Why’d you do that? You realize that you just let one of our possible enemies go, right? What? Did you care about Norman long ago to let him be free like that?”

Boris didn’t let himself look too offended by that.

Instead, from a pocket behind him, pulled out a really familiar hat. It didn’t resonate quickly to Sammy, nor did it strike a nerve, but when it did, Sammy’s eyes widened. His memories began colliding, happy thoughts he never thought existed pulling up in his retinas, smiles from the past that now haunted him as he stared at Boris’s hat.

No, not Boris’s. Jack’s.

The axe dropped, and Sammy approached the hat hesitantly, running his fingers on the rim, sadness wearing him slowly. Jack, an old friend, a loyal companion, the lyrics to a song, a masterpiece…somewhere here, dead, or alive, or dead returning to life with each blow.

Suffering in this cold place like the rest of them instead of standing out to see the sun.

Instead of living the kind of life they were supposed to, a victim who also lay here. Sammy wondered if Jack was like him, someone who walked, who talked, who ran through the studio with hopes of escape, trying to make friends along the way, to bring them their freedom.

Doing what Sammy couldn’t. Saying what Sammy couldn’t.

“Where did you find this?” Sammy whispered in the darkness, but Boris was quiet. He only watched Sammy sadly, a trait he always seemed to do when Sammy looked as broken, inside and out. And to Sammy himself, he was always broken. Even long before this entire mess.

“Has it been here the whole time?” Sammy asked, and thought better of it. The place itself looked as if it let hell’s demons trample over it, with bodies on the ground, unmoving, faces frozen that way forever. So much dark ink everywhere told that the fight with the Projectionist was long or brutal, the gunshots having fallen over them as a way to…Sammy was jumping to conclusions. Maybe it was the Projectionist who had the gun all this time.

And with Norman walking again, that just multiplied their signs of death, their fading hopes of safety with so much darkness in every direction. A rock in a path, a fever in a system. Something holding them off as a timer secretly ticks down.

Sammy didn’t have it. He looked at Boris, waiting for any answer to his question. And by any, he meant any literally. Even if Boris just blinked, Sammy would be satisfied enough that the possibility of another backstory was present to what might have become of Jack’s unwanted fate.

But Boris’s gesture beckoned, and he turned away, going to a different direction.Then he ran, and Sammy could once again just follow, feeling stupid. He was following a wolf around the studio. Not Bandy, nor any Butcher Gang psycho. Boris. He imagined the humiliation he’d receive if the story were broadcast to his former co-workers. Wally would laugh, so would Susie.

Just the mention of her name made Sammy’s heart shatter, only a bit. He’d not think about her. She’s already dead, maybe laughing at him from the heavens.

“Where are you taking us now, Boris?” Sammy asked tiredly. “Have we even arrived where you wanted us to?” Even with Norman out of sight, Sammy glanced at the direction he had gone, for what reason, he didn’t know. To check his state, their safety, or in concern for an old partner, he wasn’t sure.

Boris was a bit too far away to hear, so Sammy had to run faster to catch up. It wasn’t hard--Sammy had amazing agility, he and Wally always tying back in the old days during a race by a green hill, Joey behind them as he panted in old age. Sammy realized that that was the only time away from Susie that he smiled.

Sammy was not one to comprehend Boris’s journey: elevator, left turns, right turns, stairs, more stairs…it was endless, and Sammy was in shock to how someone so mute could remember the directions for this accomplishment he wanted to get.

More surprising was Sammy’s silence, his allowance and trust for Boris to lead the way. Sammy was never one to trust, to even find anybody easy to talk to. But unintentionally, Boris’s personality and somewhat innocent demeanor, but his understanding of the studio made it easier for Sammy to agree on his terms. Sammy wished he was doing what was right. Or else…

Freedom is lost.

When Sammy’s surroundings began looking familiar, he squinted. “Boris? What is this?”

Then be knew why it was familiar: this was the tunnel that led to Jack Fain’s, his old lyricist. They stepped close to the ink, but with the dark river beneath them, both Sammy and Boris knew that one step and it’s back to the Ink Machine they’d go. Sammy raised a brow at Boris, but the wolf was already moving, a wrench suddenly in his hands as he twisted screws onto long wooden boards he found by a side. When he was done, he walked to a spot where he pulled a dustpan--Wally’s old dustpan.

Boris pushed the raft into the pool, and stepped on it. He dangled the dustpan at the side, and looked once at Sammy. A request to get on. Sammy blinked, but followed. Soon, Boris was rowing the two of them down the pool with little effort.

“That was wise,” Sammy commented.

Boris just blinked back.

When they arrived to Jack’s place, Boris went out first as his ears twitched, clearly waiting for something to happen.

Then the roaring, the moaning, the cries of a monster brimmed the dark chamber. Sammy’s axe rose, and his stance widened, body low as his eyes scanned the surroundings. If anything, this was going to be a different kind of fight, one that was anticipated, not out of the blue.

Against Jack.

The blob creature sprang from the pool, and Sammy’s axe was slashing in defense, without the intention of hurting, not yet. Sammy raised the axe as Jack approached, something painful at the pit of his stomach.

This was Jack, the old lyricist. Sammy’s guide in grammar, a man with ideas that built up the themes in his songs, songs that won them awards and prizes. Looking at that reassuring face so many times before, Sammy knew that he wasn’t alone with the feeling of annoyance at the studio’s noise. Unbearable.

The sight before him was unbearable. But Sammy didn’t falter, not even when Jack lunged.

The axe was in the air, but Jack ducked, his inky fingers cold as he wrapped them around Sammy’s neck. Sammy didn’t choke, only smirk as the axe dove into Jack’s back. Jack roared, spitting inky blood on Sammy’s face. Jack released Sammy’s neck, allowing him to roll away and off the raft, into Jack’s old office. Boris shuddered, running out of the way as Sammy raised his axe, Jack once more trying to tower over him.

Sammy pushed Jack, Jack crumbling onto the raft. Sammy swiped the axe as he dove, but Jack leaped away, going for Boris. The wolf was frightened, but manage to run away from the path in front of him, and Jack stumbled in surprise as an effect, right into the tip of the axe. Sammy threw Jack off the axe, the monster colliding in the pool with a splash.

Still, he snuck from the other side, grabbing Sammy’s legs, and the songwriter fell down, the ink beneath them splashing, the raft creaking. Sammy swore, trying to free himself from Jack’s hold, but he felt like Jack had become a tree, with roots wrapping around his legs in an attempt to trap him.

Never. Jack was no match for Sammy. Sammy squirmed, the axe levitating from the wood. Then raised. Then landed on Jack’s arms, cutting them in two.

Jack cried out in pain as more ink drenched Sammy’s pants, the songwriter already standing. That noise that Jack released was not like Jack’s voice at all, like the creature was different altogether. But Boris led him here for a reason: to see Jack.

But Sammy didn’t understand the purpose of doing so. To make him feel sad? Guilty?

Or to give Sammy more determination to free them from this crooked empire?

“Jack!” Sammy yelled, and his heart broke when the creature faced him, quieting from his painful wails. Unmoving, but observing. Observing Sammy, his ink-splattered pants, his muscular build. His stance, his way of holding the axe.

Sammy returned his attention to Boris, and the wolf understood. He gave Sammy the hat, and Sammy placed that hat on Jack’s head. Jack didn’t stare any longer. He ran off, down the inky stream, and into a dark abyss.

“I guess we really do have old friends in the studio,” Sammy mused. He stepped soundly on the raft again, clutching his axe tightly. “Let’s go, Boris. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Boris obliged, stepping onto the raft next to Sammy. He rowed them back, and Sammy was grateful for Boris’s silence.

When they reappeared on the more solid part, Sammy stepped off the raft first. He was about to speak when all he released was a choke. He released a breath, and found himself ready to weep. He didn’t want to. As Boris was arranging the raft, Sammy aggressively wiped his eyes, the inky tears that threatened to fall. One still managed to slip, down his cheek and off his chin.

Why did he have to experience it all? Why did it have to be Sammy who spared Jack today? Why did Sammy have to see Norman stand from a position that held attack, insanity from battle? Why did Sammy have to be the one to discover Boris and his clean mind, his nature that didn’t belong here?

Why did it have to be Sammy who loved Susie before her death was announced?

By the time Boris was on his side, Sammy had already managed to compose himself externally, back straight as he beheld the corridor that might lead to much more death and painful memories. Inside, the regret continued, the tears still present. Sammy turned to Boris, head lifted slightly. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s move.” He steadily announced.

They were about to when the ground suddenly shook.

 

* * *

 

The Projectionist kept walking, and Allison only glanced at him once. Away from them, where they were safe from him, and anyone in his path. Her hand was still tight in Tom’s grip as he led them forward, his ears twitching from time to time. In its own way, it was funny to think that he was human before from the way his body seemed to adjust to Boris’s nature.

That was when Tom’s pace quickened. Allison, caught off-guard at Tom, was unfortunately dragged, Tom sprinting like they were being chased. Maybe they were. Maybe Tom heard Bendy through the walls, preying on Butcher Gang members who thought it would be a good idea to leave the fight.

She let him carry her, even if she wasn’t guarding their backs anymore. He had an agenda, and she wasn’t going to stop him.

Besides, they’ve been walking for almost fifteen minutes.

Before the ground beneath them trembled, strongly.

Allison let out a surprised shriek, and Tom halted, his weapon in hand as he looked ready to defend. He sensed something, and from the look on his face, he managed to buy them a bit of time. But he was still a bit far from solitude, distant from proper safety.

They were going to fight.

Allison understood. She prepared herself.

Pools of dark ink sprang from the ground--hundreds of them, catching the sepia light as they bubbled. The only times that this sorts of pools appeared was when swollen creatures would attack. Maybe that was what was happening, but this time, it was some kind of army of them.

She was right.

So many Swollen searchers filled the room, moans erupting from each as they raised their hands like zombies. Allison and Tom stood back to back as the creatures began approaching.

The fight lasted longer than anticipated.

Each time one beast went down, another took its place, sometimes two taking its place. At one point, Allison and Tom had split up, battling their own creatures over the course of time. Allison knew Tom was doing a good job, the hint the unmerciful clangs of the Gent Pipe. Allison wasn’t doing bad herself. In fact, she felt strong. The battle against the Projectionist didn’t tire her in the slightest.

And speaking of the Projectionist…

Lights began flashing from a distance, that with the Projectionist’s trademark scream. Allison’s and Tom’s heads both snapped up, as well as a few from the Swollen searchers. When the running noise occurred, Allison was at her husband’s side, and with a quick warning and whisper, she said, “Run.”

And just in time they did. Run fast, weapons in sync with each sway of their hands as they abandoned their previous spot, the Projectionist’s lights behind them as the Swollen searchers attacked him, regrouped, and multiplied. And everywhere Allison and Tom ran, Swollen searchers lined the place, all with hands out as to grab them.

All were wiped by the weapons. Allison and Tom only had quick swipes, but enough to clear a path for them. The Projectionist was still somewhere behind them, vengeful for the earlier battle that he had lost, almost died in.

Both Tom and Allison lost their sense of direction. It no longer mattered where they were, because the place was a loop, a never-ending source of sadness and misdirection. There was no true place to go, no stairs to climb, no floor to land. Everywhere was the same, death in every corner turned.

No place was free of Searchers. It was a miracle that they still even had more, for it was like every soul on earth gathered for the end of the world. Well, this did feel like the end of their world.

As for Susie, she was lost a long time ago. Every trace of her trail was buried under the trails now created by these Searchers, these mindless monsters.

Running and running before they entered the elevator, shut its gates, and inside there was the silence. They viewed the Searchers trying to reach them, the Projectionist coming from one place, hands outstretched in an attempt to grab them. His light flashed in anger, and Tom pressed a button, and up they went, leaving the Projectionist screaming, the other Searchers in its aura of death.

They didn’t come out in a long time, not when they knew that outside, only death lurked, only battle awaited them, and demons who grinned patiently sat in his throne.

This was his kingdom. And all these creatures were his executed prisoners.

Allison grabbed her chest as she panted, locking eyes with Tom in the elevator. Somewhere below, there was screaming, crying, and falling. Here, it was only them. “What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?”

Tom could only hang his head.

For now, they were trapped.

But Allison was going to find a way out. She needed to.


	6. Say Hello To Sammy

 

_Thomas Connor had just finished yelling at Wally Franks, but the boy didn’t end the conversation there. Wally continued smirking, spinning a wrench in his hands as he eyed Thomas with those piercing eyes of his. It was these sorts of moments that Thomas felt the irritation Sammy and the others felt when dealing with Franks. But the sad news was that it was he himself who had to deal with Franks in necessary occasions. Like this one._

_“It wasn’t my fault the ink spilled,” Wally smirked as he said the words proudly. “If anything, it’s your fault for not putting up a sign.”_

_Thomas ran a hand through his hair, which was sticky with sweat and ink. “There was a sign! You knocked it down when you had that blindfold earlier! And…!” Thomas sighed, lowering his hand, but holding his glower. “Why did you have that blindfold?”_

_Wally chuckled. “Because Lacie told me to wear it!”_

_Sucking air through the gaps between his teeth, Thomas said, “I think she wanted you to wear the blindfold as a bandana to suck your sweat. You know you’ve been assigned to much deeper tasks now that the Ink Machine is a more…open discussion. You keep it as clean as all mechanics.”_

_Crossing his arms, Wally pouted. “But I’m a janitor.”_

_“You still know a thing or two about tools.” Thomas rubbed a handkerchief across his face, which was filled with stains of ink. “You should actually see that as a praise. Being good in more than one thing, that’s talent. That’s something you can use at an advantage sometime soon.”_

_Though Wally’s actions tried to shrug off Thomas’s words, his eyes clearly showed that those words resonated inside him. He looked almost thoughtful, strategic, unlike that quirky persona he always tried to show. And Thomas couldn’t help but smirk, at Wally’s oblivious face that he hadn’t noticed that Thomas had already understood something._

_It was normal for younger workers to show these signs of insecurity, signs Thomas wished to understand._

_“Help me clean up, won’t you?” Thomas pulled a cart full of cleaning tools from the side, grabbing a mop before handing it to Wally. The boy squinted at Thomas, his mouth a thin and uncomfortable line as he did so. Blinking, Thomas said, “What?”_

_Then Wally smirked again. “Since when were you a man of words, Connor?”_

_Thomas frowned in surprise. “I never have been.” He admitted._

_Tucking his wrench in a pocket, Wally began fiddling with the mop’s handle. “That’s fake. You seriously think you can deny what you just said? I’ve never seen you do that bull before.” Wally adjusted his hat. “Now that you mention it, I’ve never seen you this way before that new voice actress showed up.”_

_Thomas was happy that he wasn’t facing Wally, because he knew that he had gone beet red. “Excuse me?”_

_This time, all Wally’s laughs were genuine. “Connor, ever since you heard Ms. Pendle singing that ‘I’ll be you angel’ stuff, I’ve noticed you tense. I’ve seen you blush. And heck when do you ever do that? I always thought you might have just been in love with the song, because I admit that our studio does make awesome songs, but now I wonder if you were into the person this whole time.”_

_“That’s ridiculous,” Thomas snapped. “I just find it a nice happy little working song.”_

_Wally nodded, but his grin hadn’t faded. “But you’ve spoken with her.”_

_“A few times, yes.”_

_“And you were smitten by her charms? Because she is also a charming lady.” Wally began mopping the floor, but his attention was on Thomas. “A shame that she and Ms. Campbell would be at each other’s throats once she finds out.”_

_Thomas groaned. “Yes, she is nice. That part’s true.”_

_“And charming?” Wally teased._

_Thomas sent him a look of annoyance. “Get to work, Franks.”_

_Wally was quiet for a moment, the only sound the mop as it smudged against the inky floor. That was the sort of silence that scared Thomas when it came to Wally. It never meant anything good, but that something bad was going to happen, good for him. In these silences, it was Wally who got the last laugh. “Franks?”_

_Wally yelled to a distance, “Hey, Ms. Pendle! Can you come over? Mr. Connor here wants to say hi!”_

_“Wally!”_

_But before Thomas can strangle the younger boy, indeed, Allison Pendle was approaching them, her face one that showed confusion. Thomas stopped, and Wally visibly held in laughter. “Ms. Pendle!” Thomas greeted monotonously._

_“Hi, Tom,” Allison greeted back, her eyes lowering to the ink. “What’s up with all this ink?”_

_Wally giggled. “Yeah,_ Tom _! What is up with all this ink?”_

_Thomas rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Franks, please stop it.”_

_Allison’s eyes traveled from Thomas to Wally then back. She crossed her arms, grinning as she lifted a brow. “Wally Franks.” She mused._

_Wally raised his hands in surrender._

_Allison giggled, a beautiful laugh that made Thomas’s insides light up like fire. Thomas glanced once at Wally, and the latter was looking back at him with a smirk. His thumb went to the direction of Allison, and Thomas smiled, his eyes landing on Allison lovingly as he too began to laugh._

* * *

__

Susie’s gun ran out of bullets almost two times before she refilled them again. These ugly Swollen searchers were attacking mercilessly, trying to cling to her, hold on to her beautiful self. Susie cried out in anger, the gun shots vibrating though the walls of the studio. Each creature shot fell, exploding into dark ink. But they always returned, like an army of monsters.

Susie had no idea where the rest of the Butcher Gang clones were. Just like that, she had lost a piece of her puzzle, somewhere in this city of fallen souls, where nobody survived, not really. Susie clutched her head in her hands, eyes shut as she ran, the sounds so loud round her, the rooms looking darker than ever.

She was lost, just like she had always been.

But lost souls who got power were always powerless first. Susie wanted to see herself as one of those people. But all that happened to her was power given away, now and long ago, when she allowed herself to be tricked so easily.

Truth pained her, but truth also opened her eyes. This truth drove her to her goals of beauty, of becoming perfect. And to that Boris clone and his fiance earlier--forget them. It didn’t matter if they were dead. From their harsh fighting skills, they might just be nuisances in her plan. With them taken care off, then she just scrubbed her palace floors from villager mud tracks.

When she entered a room, she was surprised that it was hollow save for a few Bendy cutouts and sofas, plushies of Bendy, Boris, and Alice scattered around. Boxes littered the floor, as well as a few clocks. The place was dusty, and lighted with a brown glow from who the heck knew.

Susie panted, a hand running through her hair, rubbing where a horn had grown. An Alice Angel horn, on both sides of her head.

She held her gun tightly, even when she managed to lock the door behind her before entering. She wished she wasn’t followed.

Well, without the clones, she might as well search for the blueprints of the Ink Machine first. She might as well learn how everything worked around here first. She had to know, to be able to create her own kingdom, kill the demons.

Kill Bendy.

There was the sound of a footstep, and Susie’s gun was pointing. But from behind a shelf, a Boris clone revealed himself. Luckily, not the one who fought Norman Polk, but one who might’ve ran from the mess. He looked more timid compared to the others though, she noticed. But that might mean that he was an enemy.

She kept her gun pointed, allowed Boris to step closer. He did, slowly, trying to study her, to take her in, to learn if she was trustworthy. To Susie, she absolutely was, and will be trusted by everyone but those who’d rather stay trapped in this inky prison of a world.

Boris kept watching her, kept coming closer, kept his eyes on her face, disfigured from Joey’s game.

Her gun didn’t move, didn’t jostle, for if he made the wrong move, it wasn’t only her face that would be disfigured, but his as well. And maybe after he was dead, she’d get his heart. Wait…

This Boris…he was perfect, he was beautiful. No trace of death, only his eyes that had witnessed it. No scratch, but maybe only because he had caused others scratches. Healthy, strong, with a beautiful heart inside his body that made him better.

Susie’s eyes went bloodthirsty. She grinned like a maniac. She pressed the trigger--

After she was tackled to the ground.

The gunshot didn’t hit Boris, but the ceiling above him, which rained wood down like earlier. Susie gripped her gun as she tried to move from the figure above her, the monster that might have came in before or sometime after she came here.

His axe was searching for her face, and Susie managed to swipe her head to the side as the blade fell, slicing a part of her imperfect halo. She managed to roll, because he wasn’t holding her steady enough. Already, she had found one of this man’s weaknesses: being too off-guard.

Already standing, Susie beheld him: a tall man with a muscular build, visible under his suspenders. His feet were inky and dark, his face just like it. But despite the ink that coated it, she could still see the shape of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the snarl his mouth was shaped in. And from those, Susie felt like this man was handsome before his apparent misery.

He tightened his grip on the axe’s handle, the other half of her halo discarded on the floor.

Okay. He might’ve been hiding in this room with that Boris before she even arrived here. And Boris had been bait to trial her, this man ready to leap if she did something wrong.

She was certain that they didn’t trust her.

She raised her gun.

The man spoke. “I wouldn’t do that.” He warned.

Susie’s heart froze. This wasn’t any random man, because she knew that voice, loved the man who owned that beautiful voice. Sang with him, walked with him, let him sweep her off her feet. Made her laugh, then one day made her cry, made her see the world with different eyes.

This was no Searcher.

This was Sammy Lawrence.

But she didn’t love him anymore, and she would never love him again.

Susie didn’t lower the gun, kept it pointed at his heart. Sammy didn’t move either, his axe straight in his hold. They were waiting for each other to move, to continue the sequence. So proudly, to prove that she wasn’t going to surrender to this man, shot the bullet.

And missed.

Sammy was slicing at her, his axe strokes quick and flashing in her vision. Susie barely had time to move, only duck at the right moments when she was clueless on how to attack him. The gun was wavering, attempting to leave her hold. But she kept her grit, tried finding the best place to bury its tip on Sammy.

He was fast. He was angry, full of hatred and pain. She almost laughed at the idea that he even was, for he made her feel so much worse. She never forgave him, never gave him another chance. And this reunion wasn’t going to change that, even if nobody died, but they got closer.

A retelling of the story of Samson and Delilah, because she would do it without hesitation.

She raised a fist, connecting it to his jaw. He drew backwards, and she shot. He was still fast, his leg swiping beneath her, and she crumbled, releasing the gun. It dropped to the ground, and Boris snatched it speedily as Sammy clutched the ribbon by her breast, raised her, then pushed her to the wall.

Didn’t release her.

“Who are you?” He breathed against her.

She didn’t respond, only smirk at him with a smile full of hatred. And she wasn’t going to answer any time soon, not while he was holding her, not trusting her. Besides, why would you reveal you name to people you didn’t trust? That is just a trick to let others see that you are only a puppet, not the puppeteer.

He repeated his question, this time louder. “Who are you?”

She was quiet, unresponsive.

“Will you speak if I release you?” Sammy demanded. She had never heard him sound this angry. Sure, he was always cranky then, but he was never one to demand this way from a female. He had always respected Susie, and in that case, Lacie, Dot, Allison.

Plus if he heard her voice, he’d know.

So what?

Susie nodded, and his grip on her weakened. Her shoes touched the floor, but her hands still felt vacant without her gun. She looked up at him, as he looked down at her. He didn’t recognize her yet, ad Susie wished he never did. But that was impossible.

Sammy repeated for a third time. “Who are you?”

And she said, “Alice Angel.”

And he was silent. His eyes were wide, his axe loose in his hold. He was so easy to kill now, but the gun was with Boris, who looked defensive. She still heard the cries from outside, and she wondered how much crying was inside Sammy now that he knew.

Susie left from in front of him, heading for the door. She no longer cared if the outside was crowded with Searchers. She wanted to leave him here, to realize, to understand. She put her hand up towards Boris’s direction. “Gun, please.” She simply said.

Sammy stepped towards her, and she could’ve sworn his hands were shaking. “Susie?”

Susie smirked at him. “No time long see, Sammy Lawrence.” She said. “Can I have the gun?”

Sammy stepped closer. “I…thought you were dead…” His voice cracked.

Susie tilted her head. “I was.”

Sammy dropped the axe. “But Joey said--”

“Has anyone else really believed what Joey says, Sammy?” Susie cut him off.

He stopped, his hands in tight fists that hang lifelessly at his sides. How interesting that such a tall man can be such a small child. “I thought you were dead…” He whispered unevenly.

Susie frowned. She didn’t give a dang if he thought she was dead. She wouldn’t give a dang if she knew he was dead. “Nobody really dies in this sorry tale, Lawrence.” Susie announced. “Can I. Have. My. Gun. Back. Please. I won’t kill you. I promise.” Maybe not now, but some other time perhaps.

Boris glanced anxiously at Sammy, but the man didn’t return the look. Instead, Sammy’s stare was on the floor, as if there was a door in it that opened to his old memories. Sammy didn’t even seem to hear her anymore.

“I’m leaving, Sammy. You can’t just think that I--”

“I can’t afford to lose you again, Susie,” Sammy pleaded.

He wasn’t going to stop, she realized. He was too overwhelmed. So if she wanted to be beautiful again, then she needed to be what she used to be: an actress. This broken man before her? She can use him, turn him into her little errand boy. She can use him to her advantage. She had to put up a persona. It was part of her own contract.

It was all coming in place in her mind. 

If she had to betray him in the end, he had it coming. It was his fault that she hated him, that she no longer respected him. His naive demeanor, his lack of fighting skills in both heart and mind. His inability to save her, to run after her even if he knew that he himself was wrong, put to the spot. If the end of her little game hurt him more, Susie wouldn't mind. He had it coming. 

She put on a face of pity, walked in front of Sammy, put her hands on his face, turning him to look at her. She met his eyes, buried behind all those ink, but beautiful nonetheless. Eyes she loved before, but could never love again.

“I missed you, Sammy,” Susie said.

Sammy touched her hand, his face full of pain. While she hated him, here he was loving her. Regretting what he didn't get to do. He didn't need to speak for Susie to get that message. He hugged her, and Susie was wrapped in him, his ink that never seemed to become sticky, never seemed to touch her. It was like hugging an actual person, not someone who was corrupted by Joey’s sins.

Boris stepped closer to them, but not too close. He turned away her gun in his grasp, and Susie realized why. Sammy had began crying, his shoulders trembling under the protection of her arms. He had become such a delicate man, the opposite of the man she had been fighting with earlier, who broke her halo apart. But these tears, these sobs…she had a feeling he had been keeping this emotions in for a long time. He trusted her, even after all these years that split them apart. Trusted her enough that he thought he could cry on her, have her absorb his sorrows. Even if she was no longer there for him, he was still here for her. And he was relieved to see her. And those sobs were what told her of that truth.

Susie was clueless to how long she was against him, and how long he was against her, because outside, the Swollen Searchers began to quiet down, until there was no sound outside at all.


	7. Listening And Always Watching

 

Of course, it was Bendy’s appearance that triggered the retreat of a lot of those Swollen creatures. Allison and Tom had both been witnesses to that act before, and were not surprised when it happened again. However, for both of them as well, the situation that just passed them was not in the ordinary, something that happened rarely to never in the studio. As Bendy curved to go to another hallway, Allison and Tom slithered out of the elevator at the same time, following the direction of the infamous Ink Demon.

It was scary, as it was uncomfortable. Around them, those dark swirls on the walls, the heartbeat from the depths of the dark, and the voices that only seemed to whisper when death was near. Deceased souls and old memories, trying to bring themselves back to the living world. Still, there was no more world to live in. Saying that there was a chance might someday morph from a goal to a thought of reassurance to a dream that never came true.

Were there dreams that could still come true? Wally’s seemed to have done so--if he weren’t trapped here somewhere. Or he had miraculously escaped, found a way out, but shared the route of his success to himself only, leaving no trails to be followed.

Desperate thinking. No one found a way out yet. Joey’s plan was perfect if his product was his employees’ suffering. Long ago, Susie was first to die. Sammy was first to break. The others fell next. Then them. No one had ended their journeys smiling, hopeful. Only scared and locked away in darkness, in inky chains and gurgled noises.

Bendy was raising these thoughts. Allison always had to shake her head, to calm herself from all this nonesense. Never say never, she reminded herself. She and Tom had gone through endless days investigating the place, finding possible hints to escape and to Joey’s mischievous plan. Inky trails, and a doorway that only opened with the sound of musical instruments. Old colleagues and their own additions of architecture to the place. Bertrum was never proud of that.

Genius in personal jobs, but crappy in others. Allison was horrible with tools, and Tom had a terrible singing voice. Now Allison made her own weapon, and Tom lost his ability to speak. All because they had agreed to a letter that brought them here after thirty years.

But today was the day it all would change. Allison was certain of that as they tiptoed after Bendy, doing her best to keep her eyesight focused and unwavering, despite the hallway being corrupted by the demon’s presence. She once again sought Tom’s hand, and tightened her hold in it once she found it. One whisper and they’d be dead.

Tom’s attention landed on her hand, squeezing it back with little effort. His grip was already tight, but Allison knew he wanted it to be tighter. This was Bendy they were tailing, not Susie Campbell. Wherever she went, Allison knew that Bendy would be, because she was waiting, to unfold her master plan of freedom. Of herself?

Bendy made a turn, and the Connors followed. Deep into Bendy’s path of the demon, trails of darkness. Nothing but suspense. Yet Susie was somewhere, and the rising of Searchers was a new. They needed to know, had to know, to find out everything about betrayal in this cruel place.

A Searcher spawned ahead of them, and as Bendy passed, the Searcher disintegrated into a puddle of ink. Bandy didn’t even change his route, move his hands nor flicker a finger. He just resumed his smiling, his walking, his invisible slaughtering.

This dark mascot had a plan, one that nobody was aware of. Through each wall, he heard the whispers, the internal monologue of the depressed. His knowledge on the good and bad here, the friends and foes here, the angels and demons here. He was aware of it all, and he never showed. His walking was a warning, a threat to dawn fear into the eyes of the souls trapped in his pool of the dead.

Sorrowful prisoners, crying in pain, without the need to deserve this ruthless treatment. But Bendy wasn’t a thinker for he was the product of a believer, one who was so trapped in the gifts given by Henry and the other members of his now-forsaken crew. After seeing Susie and Norman, Allison was sad to assume that they weren’t the only ones anymore here. Many had fallen, many had risen, and many have given their lives to slavery.

These slaves were the Searchers. Norman as the Projectionist was a slave now as well. Susie was like the Connors, trying to find a way out. And out there, plenty. Plenty more slumbering, dreaming of nightmares that specified their will to stand back and slump against a wall.

No more than millions in that state, scattered in places blocked up from explorers and detectives. Trying to hide themselves from inevitable fate if Bendy finds them, unaware that he already did. But not using them? That was just luck, not mercy. If triggered, Bendy can go all genocide like he did to those Searchers.

They had to be his army. He needed to have summoned them, tried to piece together a puzzle Allison and Tom didn’t know actually existed. It was thinking too much, forcing, but it wasn’t impossible, especially since Susie already debuted herself as a prisoner to this giant sin as well. Thousands of Boris and Butcher Gang clones were introduced earlier, as well as the Projectionist. Entranced with a bang, literally, with the bullets that hit the ceiling and constructed chaos to stir everyone.

Always quiet, but now awake, in the midst of something big. A change was coming, one that could change their lives forever. Following Bendy was a tricky move, but it was the best for now. Susie might be waiting at the other side with the Tommy gun, with an army behind her that all wish their angel battle the demon himself and win.

Every corner suggested desperation. They just wanted freedom.

As Bendy might be the chain to drag them down down, he might also be the wings to lift them up.

There was no way that Bendy was going to notice them, yet here they were. With Allison’s grip in Tom’s, she just had to rub his thumb to get him to look at her. She delivered a silent message to him with her other hand: _Ten more minutes. If Bendy does nothing else, we do a different plan._

Tom replied almost instantly: _Plan B--find a member of the Butcher Gang and trail after them._

And that was that. Whatever it takes to solve this mystery.

 

* * *

 

“Remind me again where that banjo was earlier,” Susie said from behind Sammy, Boris by their side, the banjo slung over his back as he watched the songwriter run his hands through numerous papers, all yellow with either age or lighting or both.

Sammy replied as he shook a piece of paper. “It was slumped against a wall, as to not have it broken during our little…interaction earlier.” He released a low chuckle, one that Susie returned. She was back, and she missed him as he missed her. Already, Sammy’s spirits lifted, his nightmares decreased. “Where have you been all this time?”

Susie thought for a while. “Errands. Wanting out. You know--” she shrugged. “--the usual.”

Sammy nodded. “Ah.” What he’d been doing as well many times before. He moved the papers around more as he studied them, placing others on the floor as he compared them with each other. Sometimes even needing to grab more papers from more shelves and drawers from his table. He glanced up at Susie. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down? The chair’s vacant.”

Waving a hand dismissively, Susie scoffed playfully. “Thank you for being such a gentleman, Mr. Lawrence. But I’m fine. Not all damsels are in distress, you know.” She gave Boris one of those hungry looks of hers before turning back to Sammy. “I mean, I did save you earlier. I let you take me because I know if you didn’t…” She smirked.

Sammy rolled his eyes with amusement. He wasn’t going to the conversation that he was any kind of pathetic damsel, even if it was in a way, true. “Anyway, I could’ve sworn that I kept a copy of the Ink Machine’s blueprints here somewhere. Any ounce of hints I bring back here to inspect, to bulletin-board in a way to be able to understand the logic of this place. I apologize for taking a while, Susie.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sam,” Susie said. “I could wait. Just remember that every second is important, because each beat can seal our fate, our surrender to goodness or evil.” She adjusted her position.”Not that you surrender to evil and I will be betrayed by the end of this.” She sarcastically added.

“I won’t do that,” Sammy reassured her. I swear I won’t.” Especially after his embarrassing break-down earlier. He didn’t even know how long he was hugging her, and was surprised that his voice was sturdy without hoarseness and hiccups. He didn’t remember the last time he actually let his emotions overrule him like that. Oh wait…

“The toilet here is really pathetic,” Susie said after a while, tone disgusted. “I mean, didn’t it smell before while you wrote your songs?”

Another embarrassing truth. He wished that the blueprints were in his office instead of the sanctuary. “It…” Sammy rubbed his nape, flustered. “I was used to it. I know what I smell like.” He didn’t think it was the most proper thing to say, but he didn’t think he wanted to be a little bit too truthful either.

Laughing, Susie bonked the top of the toilet, Boris recoiling beside her. “I wonder if Searchers can spawn here.”

Sammy reached for another paper. “I won’t doubt it. If I ever get lonely, I could speak to Jack Fain.” He joked lightly, but his insides only felt offended. On the other hand, Susie just giggled again. Boris seemed to feel Sammy’s joke as an attack as well. “I did fight him earlier.”

Susie stopped laughing, her one eye widening. “Jack’s here too?” She asked with surprise.

“Yeah,” Sammy responded. “A Searcher. With a hat.” He added a second later.

“Jack and his hat,” Susie mused. “Never took it off.” She craned her body. “Was he…? You know, sane? Or was he like all other creatures that lost that sanity of theirs?”

“The latter,” Sammy said. “But I think there was a triggering in his mind earlier when we gave him the hat. After that he retreated, and didn’t fight nor follow us after that.” Which was true. Sammy didn’t add how that saddened him and gave him higher hopes. He shared enough for one day.

Susie nodded. “Retreating into the quiet again, I assume.” She stooped low, on her knees as she rummaged through the papers beside Sammy. “Where was the blueprint supposed to be?” She questioned him.

“I found it.” Sammy pulled out a huge paper that was between a book, one about writing songs about drinking and revelry. Why he had that book, Sammy wasn’t certain. Maybe it was a Christmas gift that he had forgotten about. Standing, Sammy sprawled the blueprint on the table, and the three of them overlooked it. “Well, Susie?”

Her gears were thinking, her eyes calculating deeply. Sammy recalled this face earlier when studying Boris. She was quiet, her mouth only shaping words her mind spoke. Not a sound, not a thing at all. When she did speak, she sniffed, her eyes landing on Sammy’s stomach. He felt his cheeks warm, if that was possible for ink corruption. Susie said, “You’re lucky to be hot.” A compliment, but there was a bitterness that went along with it. A bitterness that didn’t signify good luck.

Boris seemed to catch it, for his grip on the banjo’s strap tightened. Out of fear.

“Thanks,” Sammy said uncertainly. “But what are you actually trying to do with these blueprints?”

Then Sammy saw it: the hateful glance Susie aimed at Boris, malicious and bloodthirsty. Quick, but easy to spot, to remember. She smiled back at Sammy, but all he saw was the look behind that smile, a mask to her emotions. “Studying. To see how I can up its functions.”

Sammy tapped the table. “You’re going to change the Ink Machine’s settings? To do what?”

She smiled sweetly. “Make me pretty.” She rolled up the blueprints, carrying it under an arm as she began walking away. “Make me pretty, Sammy Lawrence.”

Confused, Sammy looked at Boris, found the wolf trembling. Sammy walked closer, placing a hand on Boris’s shoulder. “You okay? What’s wrong?” An image flashed in Sammy’s mind, and he reeled back, clutching his head as a very creepy image burned into his mind: himself, in the middle of a pentagram, unconscious and masked, the silhouette of the unmistakable Ink Demon Bendy looming over him, candles illuminating his ink-stained glove, his eerie body. Sammy’s axe was nowhere to be seen, but what lay a few feet away lay a scythe. On the wall behind Sammy’s body, a message scrawled on the wall:

_HE WILL SET US FREE_

Boris’s hand was on Sammy, the wolf trying to shake the songwriter back into reality. Somewhere ahead, Susie’s voice echoed loud and clear. “Sammy? What’s going on?”

Sammy recalled his nightmares before returning to the studio, before he and the demons parted ways. Nightmares of candles and prayers, sometimes Boris playing an original Sheep Song on his clarinet, of the Ink Demon leaning forward, offering an inky hand. A mask that was dirtied and scratched, splattered with layers of ink, torn at Bendy’s teeth. Worn by the dreamer, arms spread wide and smile a mirror to the demon’s Cheshire grin. Prophets, surrenders, demons walking on white clouds, angels burning in fires and darkness.

Sammy bit his lip. This was another one of those images, trying to bury unwanted things into his brain. Tragic and scorned, a songwriter’s nightmare, connected in one whole banner. A sheep that doesn’t want to sleep.

“Sammy?” Susie was beside them now, her face as concerned as she can put it to be. Not totally concerned, but not entirely insensitive either. Something was definitely wrong, and Sammy feared what it might be, what might happen to them. This wasn’t the first image. There had been many more before.

Sammy shook his head. “I’m okay. Let’s go.” He lifted himself up, finding his hands wrapped in Susie’s.

“What was that about?” She asked him.

No. He wasn’t going to tell her. He wasn’t going to let her know that he had seen himself driven insane, illuminated in Bendy’s maniacal grin. “It’s nothing. I just got a headache is all. I’m okay. Promise.”

Susie squinted but didn’t protest. She began exiting again as Sammy took his axe from its position on the wall. Standing next to Boris, he saw that Boris didn’t believe his words of reassurance. As quiet as he was, Boris was intelligent, able to sniff out theses kinds of lies and issues.

“Boris…” Sammy didn’t know anymore. “Just…if anything happens, save yourself.”

Boris looked scared, but dipped his head. They began walking, but Sammy still saw that dark image, having itself permanently burned into his head.

 

* * *

 

The Butcher Gang (and Boris clones) army had re-stationed themselves in that same room. Thomas and Allison saw that much after Bandy travelled that way, and they slipped out from the shadows, shutting themselves in the room. It was not as much as a mess as it had originally been--it with some of the other corpses on the ground. But now they were full, a hundred voices filling the air, but unintelligible. Boris clones were just exchanging anxious glances between each other.

But they all had the same fear of the repetition of earlier’s occurrence. That made Thomas feel a little guilty, but only a little. What’s done is done. They had to move forward.

When Allison and Thomas stepped closer to the light, one of the Boris clones spotted them, getting the attention of some of those around him. Those around him got the attention of the rest, and the rest got more, until the whole place was aware of their presence. Thomas gulped, and Allison’s back stiffened.

Thomas expected the fighting then. But to his surprise, nobody stepped forward to attack--only look over them in awe. Awe for saving their butts earlier? Maybe. Either way, they weren’t going to cause any harm. That was further proven when Thomas and Allison decided to cross through the middle, trying their best to balance themselves on the wooden boards to keep themselves from falling.

Their next question: Was Campbell here?

If she was, she would’ve sauntered up to them, or at one point gunned them down. With Allison posing as the rear again and Thomas at the front, they would’ve seen unusual actions. But they were greeted by these faces, faces full of stitches and timidity, anger and hope. An amalgamation of sins sewn into these frankenstein creatures.

Still, where had Susie gone off to? Searched for another army? This wasn’t enough for her? Or did she have plans, to use these creatures for herself, to set herself free? After all, it was each man (and woman) for his/herself now. People had to be selfish.

But that was a thought Thomas had deeply thought of earlier.

Currently, Thomas approached a Boris clone, his hand out for the clone to clutch. The Boris clone obliged shyly, his torn ears twitching. Thomas inspected that hand, gloved in make-believe fabric, dark with stains of ink. A hand like his, but less exercised in combat.

Hastily, the clone pulled his hand back, hugging his arms sadly, unable to look at Thomas’s face. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if a clone was merely a clone, or an old friend. This clone before him, could be either. But his reaction was so human it was difficult to actually know.

Another clone--the one next to him--looked tougher in appearance. This one had a toolbelt on, which carried different…candies? Carnival candies? That was weird. He must’ve gotten them from Bendy Land at one point. If this clone ate those, then he was most likely a clone and not a soul by itself.

All so imperfect. All so unwanted and needless. Unimportant.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Allison walked up to him, whispering to his ear. The transformation from human to cartoon character resulted to her becoming taller than him, even if in reality, it was the other way around. “Tom?”

He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure why they’ve entered this place anymore. No! Thomas rubbed his temples. They were searching for Susie, for sources of change. There had to be something fishy, they just needed to know why. They could exit this place if they wanted, for Susie wasn’t even here.

How this place was a tragedy to look at…

Allison turned to one of the Boris clones, for they looked more sensible than the Butcher Gang ones. “Was Alice Angel here?” Of course, because not everyone would conclude that it was Susie. “The…other one.” Allison added momentarily after the clone hesitantly pointed at her.

The clone shook his head with a shrug. He swiped a bit of wood that was as long as a pen, dipped it into the ink pool, then scribbled on the floor. Already, this clone was a thinker, a hint that he might be more than a clone and more of a morphed soul as well. When he was done, he looked up at the Connors, who read the message silently.

_The woman who wishes life or death. She yearns, she learns, then she tears apart._

Allison sighed. Thomas did the same.

She was out there, doing the unexplainable. From the clone’s message, it was difficult to tell if Susie was doing good or bad. If she was going to kill to get what she wanted, or if she meant kill as in sacrifice. Because in the Ink Studio, killing and sacrifice, death and life, friend or foe, all sounded synonymous.

They needed to find her. If Thomas had to end her…it wasn’t something he’d admit to Allison, especially since he knew that she still carried the guilt of separating Susie from her former lover during that time at work.

Allison squared her shoulders. “Alright then. Tom.” They made eye contact. “Should we go now, or would you like to rest first for the…night?” Her face made the impression that she wasn’t so proud of her description. Still, Thomas saw the tired lines on her face, her sleepy eyes. Thomas himself still had the urge to keep going, but Allison’s condition made him feel sympathetic. He gave her a nod, finding his body warm up to the idea of rest.

Allison shot a thumbs up. They began exiting the place again after one last wave to the clone that helped them, who was rubbing an elbow in attempt to erase the message he gave them. Allison and Thomas continued back to their normal hideout, untouched with only a few traces of discovery by Swollen Searchers.

The never remembered their trek back here. Exhaustion overruled them, their mindsets in ways they didn’t know.

And like Thomas and Allison had left, they discovered the TV screen, still frozen with Wally’s pure smile. With the discovery of Susie and Norman, Thomas was stroke with the pain of thinking that Wally was somewhere here in the studio, entertaining the Ink Demon by suffering so much.

Approaching the television’s remote, Thomas played the tape, and Wally finished his mid-laugh. He then continued to say, _“I guess that ends the tour for now. Anyway, if ever this tape gets the love it wants--the love I want, I’d be more than happy to make more behind-the-scenes tapes like this. It’s just so freaking fun! Messing around the studio and procrastinating from work just makes my day! Man, if it were just this fun everyday instead of all that whining and stoic and non-pleased faces around here.”_ Wally pouted.

Walking up behind Thomas, Allison whispered, “Wally…”

Wally continued. _“Bored as heck! I can’t even pester Connor anymore because of how busy he’s getting with all that secret meetings with Joey Drew!”_

From behind Wally, Susie’s voice rang out. _“You’re not sure if those are private, Wally!”_

Wally chuckled. _“No! I’m certainly not!”_ He admitted.

Thomas felt his eyes sting.

 _“Anyway,”_ Wally finished. _“I’d better end this here. I’m not really doing this for anyone besides myself but…entertainment is entertainment. And slacking off is slacking. So…”_ He tipped his hat off, and Thomas was happy he was voiceless, for he knew he would’ve released a sob. Instead, he just lowered his head as he listened to Wally's famous words, words he always heard no matter the timeline, no matter the place, the last words from the former janitor they heard before being trapped in Joey Drew Studios.

_"See you later! I’m outta here!”_


End file.
